Bannon & Zevran Bk I: Origins Ch2: A Wolf in the Fold
by Bloodsong 13T
Summary: Bannon & Zevran: one of the quickest, slickest, smartest, conniving, lying, thieving, assassining, & insanely annoying rogue duos ever. The Wardens take an assassin into their midst, and soon regret it. Will it cost them their lives or just their sanity?
1. The Assassin

The Assassin

**Content:**

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: some

Violence: referenced

Nudity: none

Sex: referenced

Other: mature themes (racism, rape, prostitution, murder, alcohol use)

_Author's Notes:_

Yes yes yes, _finally!_ Zevran Fan Club, shaddap! :X

I have no idea what "Hannah and Her Brothers" is about, or even what it is. Gang name lifted from a Xena episode. I find it easier to remember names that way, so sue me :X

* * *

><p><strong>The Assassin<strong>

===#===

Iron grey clouds crouched over the city of Denerim. A cool storm breeze fluttered the studding sails. The captain cursed and bellowed orders to his men to get them to the docks in the chancy changing winds.

Zevran stood on the starboard side, a little back from the bow and out of the way of the sailors. He was an elf, smaller than the burly shems like all his kind, but there was no mistaking the rounded bulge of his biceps above the elbow guards of his studded leather armor, nor the sculpted lines of his thighs where they were bare between the leather kilt and the straps securing the kneepads above the worn leather boots. He was no household servant or simple laborer - he was an Antivan Crow, one of the deadliest assassins in the world. Well _the_ most deadly really, if you wanted his opinion.

A few stay wisps of pale blond hair blew across his face, which he ignored. Most of his shoulder-length hair was pulled back behind his pointed ears, tied with two warrior braids that formed a circlet behind his head. His skin was a natural deep bronze that few could achieve without baking their skin to leather under the sun.

He had a sloped forehead, long straight nose, and a strong jaw; all of which gave him a perpetual air of belligerent cockiness. Or perhaps it was the other way around - his lifelong defiance in the face of adversity had shaped his features as he'd grown. The left side of his face was marked with a tattoo, three filigree lines that swooped from his temple to halfway down his cheek. They had been black when he'd gotten them at sixteen, almost looking like fresh-painted ink. But in the five intervening years, they had faded to a purplish cast under the surface of his skin.

Zevran squinted his narrow amber eyes as the squall breeze cut towards the ship. He turned his head slightly to avoid a splash of spray kicked up by the plunging bow. He didn't bother to move, not even when the rain started pattering down on the deck. It was only rain. Chillier than Antivan rain to be sure, but it suited his mood.

He'd come to Ferelden for only one purpose: death. A very difficult and obscenely expensive contract had come to the Crows from this country - this very city, its capitol: Denerim. Naturally, the Crows had sent their best assassin to handle it.

The _Ten Pegs_ nosed into port, guided by pilot boats. The berthing and docking were tedious maneuvers, and Zevran went below to gather his gear. The rain grew thick and miserable for a while, but by the time he was ready to disembark, it had lessened into a steady drizzle.

Some self-important, rich shem reached the top of the gangplank at the same time as Zevran. The assassin cut him a sideways glare, and the man suddenly remembered he had some reason or other to stand on the deck another minute or two. Zevran never made any attempt to hide his profession, though outside of Antiva there were actually a few sad people entirely ignorant of who or what an Antivan Crow was. But the haughty shem and his yapping wife had both suddenly taken ill after a misplaced comment about elves knowing their place, and only the dullest of sailors on board had no clue how that might have happened.

Zevran stepped off the bottom of the gangplank and shouldered his bag. His weapons he wore openly, and he had little concern for any guards stopping him.

"State your name and business," the tired and soggy port clerk recited.

"Zevran Arainai," the assassin replied. He had a flavorful Antivan accent, unlike the dull heavy tones of the Fereldens. "I am here for a job."

The clerk glanced up from his manifest for a moment, then bent and scribbled on it.

"Can you direct me to the residence of the Arl of Denerim?" Zevran asked him.

This earned him another curious glance, but the man must've had his interest surgically removed years ago. "Take Port Street to the Market. Can't miss it from there," the clerk said tiredly. He turned away from the Antivan to deal with the other passengers, clearly dismissing him.

Zevran flicked rainwater out of his eyes and resettled the pack on his shoulder, then set out towards the city. Shirtless elves darted through the rain, hurrying barefoot across the slick planks of the docks to offload cargo. There didn't seem to be as many of them as usual, and their numbers were filled out by young human males, their necks and shoulders reddened by exposure to the sun.

Off the docks and onto the cobbled streets proper, there was even less traffic. Zevran wrinkled his nose. The sailors had all joked about Ferelden smelling of wet dog, but the Antivan hadn't credited it. Ferelden was known for its famous wardogs, but certainly they weren't so numerous as to make the entire country stink. No, no, it must be the rain, and the city streets. Muddy water gurgled in the gutters and darkened the cobbles. In many places, the road was uneven. Such untidyness would never be tolerated in Antiva City - not in the quarters where the rich moved about, anyway. A pang of homesickness flashed through the assassin, but he quashed it. One place was as good as any other. All cities had their sewers.

He found a boarding house - too small to be called a proper inn - squashed between a warehouse and a money lender's office. He didn't have much coin of his own, and he didn't intend to stay long, so he took a cheap room. He secured his pack there, in a strongbox he augmented with a poisoned trap. Then out he went again, carrying only his weapons and a small satchel of important documents.

The rain had begun to taper off, though more threatening clouds lurked over the city's rooftops. Zevran found the huge Market Square easily enough. There were several gated egresses. One was heavily guarded and led down a wide avenue towards a fortified castle. Another opened on a courtyard of a large estate, but it belonged to some country arl, not that of Denerim. Armed with more vague directions (honestly, he began to think half these people didn't know north from south)*, Zevran circled the Market until he came to the alienage gate. This was easily recognizeable by the high wall it was set into, and the distinct aroma of sewage that came from the bridge just beyond it. Oddly for this time of day, the gate was closed, and four men guarded it rather than a solitary bored soldier.

The elven assassin ignored them and approached three beggars huddled by the wall. "Spare a coin, friend?" The most well-fed looking one approached, hands out. "I was at Ostagar," he continued. "Darkspawn done et half me foot."

Zevran chuckled. Nothing like beggars who kept up with current events. "Actually, perhaps you can help me." The eyes of all three narrowed. Ignoring their suspicion, he said, "I am looking for the Arl of Denerim's estate."

"Are you gonna rob him?" demanded the youngest, a tow-headed boy barely in his teens. "Are you a Dalish?"

"Shut up, Shane," growled one of his elders as they shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting towards the gate guards.

"Actually, I am half Dalish," Zevran said. "And the arl is paying to have a job done. As for robbing him, the Antivan Crows _always_ deliver the money's worth."

"There's a job?" The youth's hungry eyes brightened. "What kind of job?"

"Murder, you idiot," the third beggar growled. "Antivan Crows are assassins."

"Really? You going to kill Howe?" The boy sounded just as eager about that as he had been about the job.

"Shut up, you daft blighter," snarled 'Half-Foot.'

"I'm sure I won't be killing anyone you know," Zevran assured the boy slyly. He folded his arms and leaned his weight back on one leg, exuding the deadly confidence of his trade. "You _do_ know the way to the residence of the man in charge of this city, no?" he drawled. A silver coin appeared between his fingers and he toyed with it idly.

The third beggar, clearly the brains of the bunch, moved forward. "Past those two streets on the left." He pointed. "Take the third. Follow the wall til the gate."

Zevran tossed him the coin and set out. The directions seemed odd, but they were accurate. Somewhere along its length, the alienage wall became the wall guarding the estate of the Denerim Arl. Why anyone would put a noble estate up against the festering slums of the elven quarter was beyond the Antivan, but... these were Fereldens.

The gate was closed. The guard challenged Zevran, who produced the letter requesting his presence, marked with the Arl's seal. She shrugged and let him through the postern gate. He crossed the courtyard and approached the large double doors. He had to doge aside quickly as a troop of guards emerged.

They milled about at the bottom of the steps, checking their weapons. Their leader, a sharp-faced man with a thin black moustache, exited behind them, clapping a helmet onto his head. "All right," he barked in a no-nonsense tone as he pushed through them, "our quota today is two dozen ears. Trouble-makers only! They go down easy, just put the fear of the Maker into them." With a snap of his wrist, he signalled them to move out.

One of the guardsmen in the back leaned towards his comrade. "How many of the elven whores you think we can get to go down easy?" He sniggered.

"All of 'em!" his portly companion boasted. "I got my 'fear of the Maker' right here." He patted his codpiece with a grin.

Zevran sneered as he slipped inside the doors before they closed. Amateurs. A Purge explained why the alienage gate was closed in the middle of the day. The workers, elven servants with jobs, would all be out. Only women and children would be at home, and the old and infirm, as well as those elves who worked within the alienage, shopkeepers and craftsmen and the like. And, of course, the unemployed - beggars, thieves, drunkards. The trouble-makers Rendon Howe wanted eliminated. It was a ruthlessly good plan, Zevran had to admit, as much as it disgusted him. But it was not his concern.

Hell, if the Fereldens wanted to kill off all their Grey Wardens and let the Blight overrun their country, that wasn't his concern either. Except where it was his job to do that particular killing-off.

The butler, a properly dour old man, escorted the assassin to the Arl's study after he had once again produced the letter with the Arl's seal. "Zevran Arainai," the butler pronounced, "Antivan Crow." His imperturbable demeanor seemed a touch perturbed at the 'title.' Zevran smirked inwardly. It wasn't the abject fear and respect he got in Antiva, but it was a start.

Rendon Howe was an older man with iron grey hair neatly trimmed above his ears. The cut did nothing to flatter him, as his ears stuck out ungracefully. His eyes were watery blue and close-set, his chin weak, and his nose... downright rat-like. Along with those ears, he would have made an excellent clown, if he didn't constantly look as if he were gnawing on something unpleasant. His clothing was cut in a severe style, the colours muted greys and blues. The boots were practical, and he wore a rapier at his hip. His pinched face pinched even further as he turned to look over the assassin. "You're an elf," he said simply. His tone implied volumes about how little he thought of that fact.

A smile spread slowly across Zevran's face. So many retorts for that, so little time. "You wanted the best, and that would be me."

"And alone?" Howe sniffed, which only reinforced his likeness to a nose-twitching rat. "I rather expected more for this ridiculous price."

"Only one can be the best." The elf shrugged. "The Antivan Crows guarantee success," he emphasized. "And speaking of said ridiculous price...?"

Howe sighed in annoyance and resignation, then sent for the money. Two of his house guards lugged in a steel chest and thumped it carefully down on the desk. The senior of the two produced the key and opened it - it was filled with gold coins.

"Really," Zevran drawled, "it is so much easier to count it when you pile the coins neatly before dumping them into the chest."

"It's all there," the arl growled.

Zevran spread his hands. "Procedure," he said simply. "I am not in your employ until the contract is signed, and that will not happen until I am satisfied the Crows are being properly paid."

Howe summoned his butler, whom he sent after his exchequer secretary. Truly, the man must have a servant for every task. Perhaps even separate ones for washing and folding his breechcloths. While they waited for the secretary to come in and begin stacking the coins, Howe extended him zero courtesy, and Zevran did his best to annoy the noble shem.

"They say Ferelden is much colder than Antiva," the elf said lightly, his accent distinct. "Perhaps that also extends to a certain lack of hospitality. Some wine offered while we wait, for example." He cocked his brows at the reticent shem. "No? Ah well, perhaps I will serve myself." Zevran moved easily to the sideboard, selected a silver goblet, and poured wine from a crystal decanter. It was a deep burgundy; very nice. He raised the goblet, but didn't get it halfway to his mouth when he heard the distinct sound of steel slowly sliding from a sheath. He froze, arm bent, and half turned. To his surprise, the guards hadn't moved. It was Howe who had drawn his rapier.

"Put your lips on that goblet," the human threatened, "and you'll be picking them up off the floor."

Zevran raised his brows. He glanced from the sword to the guards, who still hadn't moved, except to rest their hands firmly on their weapons. Behind him, the sound of coins clinking into piles had stopped. Then, self-consciously, it started up again.

The assassin smiled and relaxed, lowering his hand but not replacing the goblet. "You know," he said jovially, "usually when a client wants to test my skills, they throw a useless lackey at me." He tipped his head towards the two guards. Howe's narrow gaze never left his face. "I don't make a habit of killing the client to prove a point," he told the man. He turned back to the wine and got it nearly to his lips when he froze again, Howe's blade at his neck.

"Put it down," the arl ordered calmly. "Sit down. And wait until you are summoned."

Slowly, Zevran lowered the goblet. He set it down with a gentle thunk. Howe pulled back, holding his blade relaxed but ready. "Didn't they mention," he said, "that in Ferelden, the nobles are not powdered and pampered pets, but warriors hardened in battle?"

"Must have slipped their minds," Zevran confessed, only half as cocky as he could have been. "Makes sense. Dogs take after their people, do they not?"

"Sit down."

Zevran shrugged. He'd meant it as a compliment. He turned away from the arl and walked to a chair by the wall, swaggering just enough to show he wasn't doing it _just_ because he'd been ordered to. He plumped down deliberately in the chair, leaned back like a cat stretching lazily out in the sun and, just to piss the man off, propped his muddy boots up in the low service table.

The guards tensed, clearly awaiting orders to teach this knife-ears a lesson. But Howe didn't even twitch an eyelash. He'd just get the elven servants to clean it up. The bastard.

Howe sheathed the rapier. True to his boast about Ferelden nobles, he handled it professionally. "I will need to present you to the Regent," Howe told the assassin. "I do hope you have some modicum of courtly manners."

"Only a Regent?" Zevran waved it off carelessly. "I have been in the company of Princes. Of course, usually it's standing in a pool of their blood, but ah." He shrugged flippantly.

He actually made Howe grit his teeth. Point for him! "I am speaking of Teyrn Loghain - the General of all Ferelden's armies, father and Regent to the Queen Anora, and ruler of this country." His eyes glittered. "If he disapproves of this plan, you're going home with _nothing_."

"I don't think the Crows will be too happy with that," Zevran threatened.

"No," Howe agreed. "Your employers will be most unhappy if you fail to secure this highly lucrative contract."

Slippery, oily, greasy rat bastard. Zevran shrugged with nonchalance. "I concede your point."

"Well, then. I believe your coin is ready to be counted." He looked to the balding man behind the desk.

The exchequer secretary nodded. "Yes, my lord," he said crisply.

Zevran glided lightly out of the chair and came over to inspect the shining columns of gold. "I can't help but notice you have a great many Orlesian coins," he pointed out.

"Left over from the occupation," Howe replied smoothly.

"Orlesian coins are six grains lighter than Ferelden coins."

"It buys the same amount," Howe said a bit harshly.

"In Ferelden, yes; perhaps even in Orlais." Zevran fixed the arl with a pointed stare. "But this coin is going to Antiva, where its only value is the gold weight." He told the secretary, "Separate out the different coins." Turning back to Howe, he said, "If you want to pay in Orlesian coin, you will have to make up a six percent difference." Was the nobleman gritting his teeth again? Oh good! Before he left, perhaps he could push the man into fully grinding them. "It appears at least eighty percent of your payment is in Orlesian gold. That should be about 124 coins to cover it. Unless you wish to use Ferelden coin, in which case, 100 will suffice. Your man can do the calculations."

The secretary looked at Howe, licking his lips nervously. The arl scowled at the man, who then scribbled a few moments on a bit of paper. "Uhm, that's correct, my lord."

Howe rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Very well. Sandin, see the Antivan gets the proper amount of coin to fulfill his contract."

"Yes, my lord."

===#===

When the accounts were settled, the coin was packed back into the strongbox. Howe's guards would be responsible for getting it to the Crow Masters in Antiva, and Howe of course would be responsible for any mishap that might occur to it. All that was needed were the signatures of the clients on the contract.

"When can we meet with this Regent of yours?" Zevran asked.

"I will arrange it for later today. Do you have lodgings?" Not that Howe was offering any. Zevran nodded. "Leave the information with my butler; I'll send someone to collect you when you are needed."

Zevran performed an Antivan court half-bow, which was actually deep by Ferelden standards. "As you wish, my lord." Like most city elves, he was able to affect a subservient tone and manner, even while imagining the Arl performing several anatomically impossible acts with some of his rodent ancestors. Whether Howe was mollified, or not fooled in the slightest, he gave no indication at all.

===#===

And so Zevran found himself in Denerim with a lot of time on his hands. He hated waiting. He paused at the edge of the Market and looked towards the alienage gate. The three beggars were nowhere in sight. Zevran shrugged. It was too late to warn them about the Purge, anyway. Most likely they already knew - from some astute servant at the estate - which is why they were outside in the first place.

The Antivan splurged a few coppers on a meat pie, rightly guessing that the fare at his 'inn' wouldn't be up to par. The pie was actually good, with a flaky crust and well-spiced meat. Not as spicy as it was in Antiva, of course. Then it started raining again, and he headed back to the shelter of the boarding house.

The front room's desk doubled as a small bar. The assassin sat on a stool and the shem girl on duty came over to him. "Watered dog piss," he ordered. The barmaid grinned, but didn't seem surprised in the least. She poured him a mug of... Zevran sipped it. Yeah, he'd guessed right. He dropped a copper on the bar.

The girl set her fingertip on the coin and pushed it back towards him. "On the house," she said, smiling again with a cute little wrinkle to her nose. "We don't get many strangers in here."

"Oh, really?" Zevran snorted. "A piece of crap lean-to on the way from the waterfront? I can't imagine any locals come here often, either." He took a gulp from the mug, figuring if he could throw it past his tongue, he might not taste it as much.

She grimaced, but persisted doggedly. "I mean your kind." Oh, of course! Elves. "Where are you from? Tevinter?"

"Antiva."

"That's desert, ainnit? They say it gets hot up there." She leaned forward on the bar, twisting a hank of hair around one finger.

Zevran took another gulp of his drink. "The desert gets cold at night," he warned, fixing her with an icy stare. Unfortunately, she took it quite the wrong way.

She smiled again and leaned over the bar so he could get a good view of her less than impressive cleavage. "You want your bed warmed? I can arrange for your stay to be on the house, too."

Zevran slammed the mug down on the bar. "Do I look like a whore to you?" he snapped. She jumped and shrank back. He reached over his shoulder and pulled his sword out. He pointed it at her, and she backed up against the shelves. "Does this look like an instrument of pleasure that a whore would carry around?"

"No!" she squeaked.

"Stupid bitch." He sheathed the sword. "Give me the jug." She blinked dully, and he had to repeat himself before she fetched the jug of swill from under the bar and handed it over.

He took it up to his room. He didn't bother paying extra for the whole jug - the single copper he'd left was more than it was worth. Besides, he was on a budget, wasn't he? His Crow Master had paid his way and given him a stipend for supplies and mercenaries. That didn't include fine board and lodging, drink, or whores.

Zevran looked at the gaping maw of the jug. He wanted to get drunk badly, but reckoned that would be a bad idea when he had an appointment with the Regent - ruler of all Ferelden and blah blah blah. Maybe he should have taken the bargirl up on her offer but... he grimaced in disgust. Since he had made the mistake of falling hard for one particular woman, he hadn't been able to take as much pleasure in them as he used to. The expensive whores of Antiva hadn't been able to take his mind off her, and they were professionals. Some simpering Ferelden girl, smelling of dog, looking to bed an elf - he _would_ have to be drunk for that to have any appeal. Maybe if she had been a boy...

"Shit," said Zevran, staring down into the jug again. "I hate waiting."

===#===

Howe's man had come to get him in the late afternoon, when it was nearing dinner time. The arl looked more the warrior there at the castle, with his blade strapped across his back along with a wicked hatchet. He wore leather armor, though his was dyed and dressed, and edged in polished steel. Apparently, silks and satin were not the thing at the Ferelden royal court. Zevran had to give them grudging respect. He gave the arl a short bow, little more than a dip of his head. To Howe's credit, he didn't harp on the elf's "courtly manners." So they entered the Regent's study in a state of detente.

The Regent was not holding court at the moment, though perhaps he had been, for he was in full plate armor - not the thing for even Ferelden Kings to lounge about in. The tall, dark-haired man busied himself with the wine decanter as Howe approached with Zevran.

"My Lord." Howe approached Teyrn Loghain like a man offering a placating steak to a lion. "I believe I may have a solution to the Grey Warden problem."

Loghain turned and his steely gaze swept over Zevran. The elf stepped forward confidently. "The Antivan Crows send their regards." He showed his teeth in a faint feral smile.

The Regent looked over at Howe. "An assassin?" he snarled, clearly without respect for that ancient profession. He shook his head in disgust.

"Against Grey Wardens," the arl replied, "we will need the very best."

Zevran chuckled faintly. "And the most expensive." Howe shot him a look and the cocky assassin grinned at him. Loghain missed the byplay entirely, for he had turned back to his cluttered desk.

"Sire." Howe moved up beside him. "When one is faced with an infestation of rats, one does not confront them with honor and steel. One uses poison, or whatever other means necessary to eradicate them."

Loghain sighed. "Very well. We do not have the manpower to spare to hunt these vermin down. The ratcatcher will have to do."

Zevran bristled at the lack of respect, but bit his tongue. All he cared about was getting this job. It wouldn't do to fidget impatiently while the powerful men read and signed the contract, so he kept an iron grip on his self-control and stood in an attitude of relaxed poise, examining his fingernails. At last the ink had dried and the contracts were sealed. The deed was as good as done.

The assassin couldn't wait to get to business. He peppered Howe with questions as they left the castle. How many Grey Wardens had survived? Was he sure there were only two? What were their specialties? Their dispositions? Where might they go? Who were their allies?

Apparently, one of the Wardens was an elf. Zevran had never been contracted to kill an elf before. Of course he had no problem with it - a job was a job. He'd killed elves who were working as guards to his targets, and the occassional servant or slave who couldn't be counted on to keep quiet during an infiltration. It was only very rare for an elf to rate high enough as an actual target. In fact, Zevran had never heard of such a thing. If anyone wanted an elf dead, there were plenty of cheaper and easier means than hiring the Antivan Crows. This contract would surely go down in the annals of the Crows as something extraordinary.

Reports from Lothering indicated the Wardens weren't alone. They had a woman travelling with them, and perhaps had gathered more followers. That meant a difficult fight. Ferelden women, unlike their Antivan counterparts, were known to be fierce warriors with blade and bow. Still, the men were bigger and stronger, so it was just as likely that magic was involved. Any woman in a dress could fell half a dozen swordfighters with a fireball, if she had magic.

Luckily, Zevran found a mercenary company headed by one such woman. Her name was Hannah, and she was an apostate - on the run and hiding from the Circle of Magi. Which was always a bonus, because he wouldn't have to explain his request to hire a mage to a bunch of nosy Templars nor pay the Chantry a usage tax for such services. Hannah had three brothers, all warriors and fiercely loyal to her. They, in turn, kept the dozen or so other fighters in line. This worked out well for the elf, as the men were used to deferring to someone smaller than they were. It was always a trial to have to prove oneself to a bunch of muscle-bound shem fighters just to get them to follow orders. With this company, simply called the Black Wolves, Zevran dealt with Hannah, and she cracked the whip on her followers.

They secured three wagons, loaded them up with provisions and tools of their trade, and set out west on the Imperial Highway. On the hunt at last, Zevran felt more alive than he had in weeks. Which was ironic, considering his quarry was the most deadly he had ever faced.

===#===

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><p><em>Author's Afterword:<em>

I don't know if the whole thing about Zevran checking Howe's payment makes any sense whatsoever. But heck, I wanted to give them something to interact over. We'll overlook any little logic inconsistancies, shall we? :X


	2. Nightmares

Nightmares

**Content:**

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: bad

Violence: yes

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Notes:_

i wanted this to be less of a summary and more of an idea that was expressed along in the story. however, doing the latter would involve a lot more scenes of stopping to camp, meeting more npc townspeople, and probably three months worth of the story not going anywhere! yeah, i know you hate it!

so this got turned into something half and half.

* * *

><p><strong>Nightmares<strong>

===#===

As the Grey Wardens moved further away from Ostagar, Alistair's nightmares seemed to diminish. Yet for Bannon, they only grew worse. Every night, the visions tormented him. Darkspawn hunted him relentlessly, and the unseen Archdemon called to him. People he hated taunted him; people he loved turned on him. They drove him mad, mad with rage. He'd thrash about, screaming in his sleep.

Alistair would try to drag him awake, risking the elf's fist across his face. The Templar tried switching watches with him, waking him up before the nightmares. But afterward, Bannon would have to return to sleep, knowing the dreaded claws were waiting to seize him.

His lack of restful sleep made him viciously short-tempered. Even Morrigan had to complain to Alistair about it. Bannon turned to drink to help him sleep. Alistair could only watch helplessly as the elf staggered into his tent (rented from Bodahn) and tried to pass out as quickly as possible, perhaps in a stupor so deep, even the dreams couldn't find him. It didn't work. And the hangovers didn't improve his disposition any.

===#===

Bannon sat at watch on a large rock near the center of camp. His companions lay sleeping quietly in a circle around the dying fire. The night was black, not a star shone in the sky. The embers cast a red glow. Bannon's head hurt. He raised his wineskin to wet his throat, but it was empty. Again. Damn.

He looked over his companions, sleeping peacefully. Not a care in the world, no. He did it all. Keep watch, Bannon. Protect us, Bannon. Buy supplies, pitch the tent, find our way, get us money, cook the meals, wash the dishes. What was he, their damned elven servant? He raised his wineskin to wet his throat, but it was empty. Again. Damn.

Damned shems. And damned big, grey, horned stubborn shem, too. They were all alike. Bannon's head hurt, and it was getting hot. He raised his wineskin to wet his throat, but it was empty. Again. Damn.

He pitched the wineskin to the ground and drew his sword. The metal was soothingly cool to his hand, his forehead. For a moment, anyway. He lowered the blade and started sharpening it. The rhythmic glide of whetstone on steel sounded quietly through the camp.

Bannon looked over at Alistair. The former Templar lay on his back, spawled comfortably, his chest rising and falling slowly. Peacefully. Bannon grit his teeth in jealousy. He had to be careful. The last time Alistair had shaken him awake, the elf's eyes had snapped open. He recognized Alistair right away, realized where he was. Half a blink later, he'd slugged the shem right in the face. Bannon didn't think Alistair realized he'd done it on purpose. He was a bit slow. But it had felt so good, unleashing his frustration on the hapless shem. He should do it again.

Bannon froze. His head snapped up. There was a faint sussuration at the camp's perimeter. As if something large but infinitely stealthy circled them. Bannon didn't sense anything. No darkspawn. The air was just getting hotter, growing redder from the smouldering embers of the fire.

Bannon found himself standing over Alistair, looking down at the sleeping human. His constant, nagging companion. I can't lead, I can't cook, I can't count. I can't make any decisions. Help, I can't tie my bootlaces by myself. Slugging the whining shem had felt really good. But not as good as _this_.

Bannon rammed his sword down, punching the blade through Alistair's unprotected chest. The human twitched once, then his last breath escaped him with a small wheeze. Blood spread out from the body in a dark pool, glinting red in the crimson light.

Then his heart started hammering. He looked over at Morrigan's sleeping form. No no no no, NO! The witch would kill him, could kill him with a snap of her fingers! Bannon lunged and thrust his sword into her soft body. She jerked, a gasp bringing a spatter of blood to her lips. Her body collapsed back with a thump.

That had been a bit noisier than Alistair's death. Leliana and the qunari began to stir. No no no no, NO! Sten was much bigger than he was, he could crush Bannon in his bare hands! The elf sprang at the qunari and started hacking desperately at the tough hide. The blade jarred against thick bones as Sten raised his arms to fend off the blows.

"Bannon, what are you doing?" Leliana screamed. "Stop it! Stop!"

His blood burning, his head splitting, he couldn't stop. He had to fight for his life. Bile rose in his stomach as the darkness came to life around the camp. Bannon roared in triumph. His brothers would save him!

_No!_ Darkspawn inundated the camp. They'd rip him to shreds! Claws tore into him, and he screamed...

===#===

"Bannon! Snap out of it!" Someone was shaking him. Alistair. Alistair was yelling. Bannon's eyes flew open. Alistair flinched back, reflexively throwing his hands up to ward off a punch to the face.

The elf slumped, his eyelids drooping tiredly. He was knackered. He fumbled around for the wineskin he'd dropped.

Alistiar turned back to the others. "It's all right," he told a worried Leliana and frowning Sten. "Go back to sleep." He turned back to the other Grey Warden. Bannon was trying to catch the last drops of wine on his tongue when Alistair grabbed the skin from his hand. "Have you been drinking again?"

"Goddammit, Alistair," the elf snarled raggedly.

"You fell asleep on watch," Alistair snapped, starting to lose his patience. He shook the wineskin. "This is _not_ helping."

"_You're_ not helping," the surly elf growled. He ground the heel of his hand against the bridge of his nose.

"I'm sorry," Alistair said, relenting. "I don't know how any of the others learned to block out the nightmares. I don't know why they don't affect me so badly." Bannon muttered something insulting to the Templar's intelligence, but Alistair ignored that. He did harden his voice, though. "It's just something you have to work through. It's part of being a Grey Warden, along with the shortened life span and not being able to have children."

"What?" Bannon's head snapped up and he regretted the movement instantly. Still, he fixed the Templar with a glare.

"Well, it's not that you can't have children," the Templar explained. "It's just difficult for a Warden. Nearly impossible for two Wardens to conceive tog-"

"Not that!" What the hell was he prattling on about? "What is this about a shortened lifespan?"

"Oh, didn't they mention...?" Alistair backed up slightly. Mention? Oh, no, nobody mentioned these things! Bannon stood slowly, his brow creased in anger. "I guess there wasn't time," Alistair said hastily. "Well. You know in the Joining, you drank darkspawn blood - Tainted blood."

"Duncan said," Bannon growled slowly, "I mastered the Taint within me."

"Ye-e-es," Alistair replied, still backing away slowly. "But it's still there. Eventually, your body won't be able to fight it off any more, and-"

Bannon cut him off with a curse. They'd killed him! He'd joined the Wardens to escape death and they'd just bloody killed him! Even after he'd survived their damned Joining! "Andraste's Tits! I didn't sign up for this!" He shoved past Alistair. "I quit!"

The Templar stood blinking a second, then turned and caught up to him. "But you can't quit!"

"Watch me!" He didn't stop to gather any of his gear or supplies, he just started walking off. He didn't care where he went or if he survived, he just needed to get out of there!

Alistair trotted after him. "Bannon. Bannon! You can't quit!"

The elf turned on him. "I did not agree to any of this! Duncan-"

"Don't you say a word about Duncan!" Alistair cut in viciously.

"You're telling me told you all this before he handed you that chalice?"

Alistair bit his lip. "Maybe," he hedged. "Look, all I heard was 'get out of the Templars' and I didn't care about anything else."

"Andraste's Ass!" Bannon raked his hands back through his hair on either side of his head.

"Look," Alistair told him seriously. "Even if you do quit, even if you run away... That won't stop the nightmares. Or anything else. It's in your blood, now. If you go and suffer..." He gesticulated, trying to find the words. "All this? And don't fight to stop the Blight, the Archdemon? It will all be for nothing!"

Bannon sighed, his whole body slumping. "Shit."

"No matter what happens, I'm with you." Alistair moved closer, putting a hand on Bannon's arm. His voice was weighted with sincerity. "We're Grey Wardens. I'm your brother. I'll never abandon you."

Bannon looked up into his friend's face. "We're stuck in this together, hm?"

"Yep!"

"And how long until I die of the Taint?"

"What, that? Oh, decades." Alistair waved it off airily. "Fifteen, twenty years, maybe. There's no sense worrying about it now. First, we have to survive that long. And the odds of us even living through this year alone are... what?"

Bannon tipped his head. "A million to two?"

"There, see?" Alistair brightened. It seemed nothing could quench the spark within him for long. "Nothing to worry about!"

The elf sighed, and trudged back towards the camp. "Thanks, Alistair. You should get some rest. I'll take this watch since I missed mine."

"That's all right; I'll sit up with you." He fended off a sharp glance from the elf. "No, it's just that I'm not tired right now."

Bannon nodded. "Thanks. Again." He sat and propped his back up against the boulder. Alistair crouched by the fire, stirring the embers and adding another branch. Bannon had to admit, whatever the man may lack in smarts, skills, tolerance for witches, and abilities with cooking and bootlaces... he more than made up for in loyalty. Bannon grimaced. And he hadn't exactly treated Alistair very well. He would have to try to make up for it.


	3. The Assassin on the Trail

The Assassin on the Trail

**Content:**

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Action/Adventure

Language: no

Violence: yes

Nudity: no

Sex: no

Other: no

_Author's Note:_

Do not ask me to explain how the Dragon Age elastic time works, because I have driven myself bugnuts over and over trying to figure it out. Things happen when I say they happen, and take how long I say they take. And if I don't say exactly, it's because... time is elastic in Thedas.

* * *

><p><strong>The Assassin on the Trail<strong>

===#===

Ferelden was a huge country, compared to Antiva. Zevran began to wonder if they would even be able to find two Grey Wardens in the vastness of it all, or if they would just criss-cross the land aimlessly searching for months. If the Wardens left the roads, they could vanish. Hopefully, they weren't that smart. The assassin wondered what he would do in their situation, not being owned by anyone and his entire order being destroyed. Disappearing sounded very enticing. But then again... what would he do with himself in obscurity? Killing was all he was good at. Well, killing and whoring, but killers earned more respect than whores. The Wardens, it seemed, just might try to rebuild their order, starting at Redcliffe.

First, the assassin and the Black Wolves would have to pass through Lothering. It was unlikely they could pick up the Wardens' trail there, as that doomed village was due to be sacked any day. They didn't make very good time; the refugees flooding east on the ancient highway had slowed the progress of the wagons. When they came upon small groups setting up camp for the night, the mercenaries dispatched them and loaded their paltry goods onto the wagons. Zevran chafed at this robbery, but the damned mercs were making a tidy profit along the way. And even more when they sold back some of the foodstuffs to other refugee groups, who were desperate enough to pay anything for a moldy half wheel of cheese or some leather-tough strips of dried meat.

At last the road was clear, and they drove the oxen hard. Lothering was a ghost town, picked clean like a corpse left to the crows. There was evidence of darkspawn in the half-eaten corpses strewn in the Chantry yard, and some of the strange, twisted-bone totems standing in the fields. A bleak miasma clung to the ground, like a dark fog. The mercenaries kept alert, with arrows nocked, as they moved to get the wagons around a break in the ancient Tevinter highway. They hauled the wagons up the ramp to the west side of the highway, crunching over strewn bones.

As the third struggled up the slope, the oxen began lowing. One of the rear guards spat a curse. "Darkspawn!" Several dark humanoid shapes loped across the sward towards them. The guard loosed an arrow at them, with no effect.

"Leave it!" Zevran snapped at the men pushing at the wheels of the last wagon. "And stop wasting your ammunition on those things. Run!" He leapt into the back of the second wagon. Hannah and her older brother were already taking the reins of the first wagon, getting the panicked oxen to run in the same direction.

Only two of the Black Wolves didn't heed him; the rest raced for the two wagons pulling out. "That's half our gold," screeched one of the dawdlers. The last wagon slipped sideways off the ramp and the back wheel wedged firmly in place. The oxen screamed in panic and flailed their hooves, trying to run.

"You're going to get eaten!" one man shouted back, leaning over the back of the wagon and extending a hand to those running close behind. They hauled them up, but didn't slow down for the two stragglers.

The rear guard got his head split open by a tall Darkspawn with an axe. The twisted creatures swarmed over the cattle, ripping bites out of them while they still kicked and screamed. A few moments later, the same thing happened to the last man running after them. "So much for them slowing down for that," grumbled one of the Black Wolves next to Zevran. The man nocked an arrow and let fly. It hit the target, but the Darkspawn kept on coming. Others began firing. They brought down two.

Zevran shook his head. He fished down under the tarp and came up with a clay jar filled with oil and sealed with wax. With his firestriker, Zevran lit the rope fuse. He stood up in the jouncing wagon, keeping his knees loose so he didn't get thrown. He lobbed the grenade into the mob of pursuing Darkspawn, and it exploded into a fireball, dismembering several and setting the rest on fire.

The big human turned to him. "What was that about wasting ammunition?"

"What? One grenade?" the assassin scoffed. "Better than the two dozen arrows you were throwing at them."

===#===

They got several miles out of the spooked oxen, stopping only at full dark. The beasts and wagons looked ready to drop and fall apart, but hopefully they would hold together until the assassin could set up an ambush. There wasn't any sign of further Darkspawn pursuit, thank the Maker. The Black Wolves set up a quick camp, and one of the more handy fellows did some repairwork on the wagons.

The next day, they caught up to a garrulous dwarven merchant plodding along with his little donkey cart. He was heading to Redcliffe, he said. They traded news from Denerim with him, and he claimed the Grey Wardens had saved him and his boy back in Lothering, and so he was following them. Apparently, the Wardens tolerated him in their camp at nights, and he knew a lot about them and their plans. Zevran tried not to grin like a cat with the keys to the canary cage. He could hardly believe his luck. Well... no, truth be told, he'd always been extremely lucky and was glad of it. Still, it always managed to surprise him.

The dwarf confirmed Howe's speculation that the Wardens would seek allies in Redcliffe. He even gave them directions on which fork in the road to take, and best of all, there was only one road in and out of Redcliffe. The assassin thanked him graciously, and they whipped up the oxen, sensing their prey close at hand.


	4. Alistair's Confession

Alistair's Confession

**Content:**

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: a bit

Violence: none

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Notes:_

Bet you didn't see this coming. ;P

* * *

><p><strong>Alistair's Confession<strong>

===#===

The road to Redcliffe was lined with vast boulders of the sandy-reddish stone that gave the arling its name. It picked its way through great rock outcroppings until it opened up on a flat-topped hill overlooking the lakeside town. The ground sloped down sharply towards the vast lake. A small river ran down the steep hillsides, falling in a pair of cascades. The road into town criss-crossed the river with two wide stone bridges as it made its way down towards the shore. An old fieldstone wall edged the hilltop, and the companions moved near it to get a look at Redcliffe itself.

Although the arling held sway over several bannorns south of Lake Calenhad, Redcliffe was not a grand city like Highever or Amaranthine. It was, in fact, more of a really large fishing village. The river ran swiftly under the millhouse waterwheel. The companions could see the timber buildings crowded together on the shore, and the large Chantry that seemed to gleam amidst them.

Alistair looked down on the rooftops of his home town. His heart lightened to be somewhere so familiar, but his stomach grew heavy with dread. Sometimes, it wasn't so good to be in a place where everyone knew all about you. His companions turned and headed for the road while he lingered a bit longer. It wasn't making his burden any lighter.

"Wait!" he called out, a bit more sharply than he intended. The others turned back; Leliana and Bannon with concern on their faces, the witch and the qunari merely annoyed. "Look, um...," he said, walking closer to them so he didn't have to raise his voice. "Before we go into Redcliffe, there's something I have to tell you."

"What's wrong, Alistair?" Leliana asked gently. Her sea-grey eyes were soft with compassion.

"Nothing's wrong, exactly," he said. Uncomfortably, he shifted his weight from foot to foot. He rubbed his forehead with the heel of one hand, then brought it down firmly and clasped it in the other one. He interlaced his fingers and twisted his gloves against his skin. "All right, there's no really easy way to go about this, so I'll just say it: I'm a bastard." He dropped the words like a crate of nails. "And before you start in with the jokes," he added quickly, shooting a glance at Morrigan, who had just opened her mouth, "I mean the fatherless kind."

That shut the witch up. Leliana nodded in sympathy, and Bannon folded his arms and looked down. He almost looked bored. Sten simply said, "That is not physically possible."

The bard explained to him, "He means his mother was not married to his father. In our society, it is important to have official family ties." Alistair dug the side of one foot into the soft dirt. He really hated this. Leliana turned to him. "It is nothing to be ashamed of, Alistair. You haven't done anything wrong." She placed a hand on his forearm, and he looked up at her gratefully.

"So Eamon is your father" the elf said impatiently. "Is that going to be a problem?"

"What? No!" Alistair blinked in surprise. Why did everyone think that? Oh, well... he supposed it made sense; his mother had been Eamon's servant. "No, Eamon isn't my father."

"Well, who is, then?" Bannon asked.

"Uh...," Alistair ducked his head and scratched his nose, somewhat deflecting his mumbled words. Even the elf, with his sharp ears, had to lean forward and ask him what he'd said. "Maric," Alistair confessed miserably. "King Maric. Um, Cailen was my half-brother."

Leliana's eyes widened. Bannon threw his arms up in the air. "Oh, I see! You're not nobility, you're _royalty_!" He turned away in disgust.

Now it clicked - Bannon was annoyed at him because he'd told the elf he wasn't of noble descent. Oh, this was not going well. "No, no! Look, I didn't lie to you! I'm _not_ of noble birth or royal descent or any of that. My mother was a servant. I was a kennel-boy!" he insisted desperately.

Leliana tightened her grip on his arm. "But you are a descendent of the Theirin line. Alistair, you're the king," she breathed in awe.

"I'm not!" Alistair's stomach clenched. "I'm not the king! I was never meant to be king! _Cailen_ was king; I'm nobody!" He pulled his arm from Leliana's grasp and ran his gauntleted hand back through his hair. "It was drilled into me, very clearly, that I was never to be eligible to take the throne."

"Then why are you bothering us with this?" Morrigan asked, her annoyance quite clear.

Alistair released his breath with a huff. "It's just... with Loghain seizing power and this entire mess, Arl Eamon might try to use this. He might suggest putting me forth as rightful candidate for the throne to strengthen our own position." Especially if Eamon were still very sick. Alistair felt a chill. He honestly never _had_ wanted power and glory and the responsibility for an entire nation. He certainly didn't want it now! The thought made him queasy. Didn't he have enough problems figuring out what he wanted to do with his own life? The mere thought of having to direct this rag-tag band as it went about the Grey Warden business was enough to make his stomach eat itself alive with worry. Thank the Maker he wasn't the last Grey Warden left. "I just... didn't want that to come as a shock to you all," he finished lamely.

There, that was over with; for what it was worth. Sten couldn't care less, for which Alistair was grateful. Even Morrigan's opinion hadn't shifted one way or the other, she still hated him. What a relief. Bannon was pissed, but Alistair was sure he'd get over it. The other Warden certainly knew Alistair wasn't a pretentious oaf. If anything, he was a humble, common, hard-working, bumbling oaf.

It was Leliana that had him seriously worried. She fixed him with her open grey gaze, seeming to see something beyond him. "Alistair, by the right of succession, you _are_ the king."

"No, I'm not!"

"What about the prophecy?"

"The-? What prophecy?" he asked, but he had a sinking feeling he knew the answer to that.

"The one that says Ferelden will never fall, not so long as a descendent of King Calenhad's bloodline rules the nation?" Oh, yeah; he was afraid it'd be that one. Her stare was making him feel very uncomfortable. "You must take the throne, or all of Ferelden may be lost."

"That's just... nonsense," he insisted. "It's not a real prophecy. It's just a saying people made up." He edged past her to follow the others, who had returned to walking down the road.

"It is your destiny, Alistair," Leliana said quietly, sending a shiver up his spine. He sincerely hoped that wasn't the Maker speaking through her.

He hurried to catch up with the others, and hoped that other uncomfortable things between him and Eamon wouldn't also come up. Yes, it was always good to come home... until your ugly past reared its head and embarassed you in front of your friends.


	5. The Curse of Redcliffe

The Curse of Redcliffe

**Content:**

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: a bit

Violence: none

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: religious discussion

_Author's Notes:_

So tempted to call this part "Redcliffe: The Phantom Menace" :X

Thank the Maker for the DragonAge Wikia, without which I would have to make up names for all these NPCs. And would give them entirely the wrong ones. (Like Mother Hannah, whose name I've already given to a mercenary with Zevran. So I had to make up "Chantrise" as a name. Gah.)

* * *

><p><strong>The Curse of Redcliffe<strong>

===#===

The road sloped down below a wall of living rock. The Wardens' group crossed over the first bridge and headed towards the castle gate. Or, rather, the bridge gate. The castle was situated on a craggy island in the lake, connected by a long bridge of stone. On this shore, the bridge continued as a stone and timber passageway that ended at the cliff face. A heavily-barred portcullis was lowered in the entryway.

"That's odd," Alistair said. The party drew closer, but there was no one manning the mechanism to open the gate. "Why is it closed?" Alistair asked no one in particular. "Where is the guard. Halloo?" He pressed closer to the portcullus, trying to see down the bridge.

Bannon looked around, a bad feeling settling in his gut. They'd pinned their hopes of aid and an army on this Arl Eamon, the solution to all their problems. Life couldn't be easy for once, could it? He spotted a man armed with a bow, coming up the road from the town. The fellow saw the group at the same time and broke into a trot.

"You! Have you come from the outside?" He slowed and they all turned to him. His eyes darted over their armor and weapons. Oddly, he didn't have a cuirass, only bracers. "Have you brought help?"

Bannon glanced at Alistair, who seemed to be trying to shrink. So the elf stepped forward and said, "We're Grey Wardens. We have urgent business with Arl Eamon."

"No one sees the arl!" the man blurted in surprise. "No one goes to the castle - not since the curse started."

Alistair and Bannon shared another glance. Bad feeling confirmed. "What curse?"

"Every night, strange creatures come out of the castle and attack us. We tried to send for help..." He glanced down the road past them, as if hoping for, well, more of them.

"Out of the castle?" Alistair's concern overrode his reticence.

"What kind of creatures?" Bannon asked. Darkspawn? But how would they get into the castle first, then come out and attack the town?

The man shuddered. "Dead creatures. Folks reckon it's the punishment of the Maker upon us." He seemed to come to a decision. "If you're really Grey Wardens, maybe you can help us. I should take you to see Bann Teagan."

"Bann Teagan?" Alistair's ears perked up. "Eamon's brother? He's here? Take us to him."

===#===

The city of Redcliffe was nothing compared to Denerim. The main street was paved with the red cliffstone, but the rest were either hard-packed dirt, or overlain with wooden boards. Closer to the shore of the lake, these became elevated walkways, and in fact, some of them extended over the water, as did the houses, built on stilts.

There was no wall. The cliffs on one side and the lake on the other protected the town. There also didn't seem to be an alienage, unless it was further down the shore. Bannon wondered where the elves lived. If it were cheek by jowl with the shems, it couldn't be too comfortable.

Their guide led them past makeshift timber barricades to the courtyard of the Chantry. The ground here was layered with white gravel - crushed shells, actually. The church itself was built of pale fieldstone and whitewashed timber, lending it the bright gleam it sported amidst the reddish-brown of its surroundings. The courtyard was not quiet. Rows of men drilled with bow and arrow. Several people were scurrying inside the big double doors.

The archer led the Warden's group inside, where yet again the Chantry had become a house of refuge for the wounded, the homeless, the fearful. So caught up were these people in their own misery, they barely glanced at the looming Sten or the exotically-garbed witch. Leliana broke away and went among them.

Bann Teagan was a man in his prime, with dark auburn hair and neatly cut beard and moustache. He wore fine armor of crimson-laquered chainmail with reinforced leather guards. He was beleaguered by a group of townsfolk. Teagen's rich, strong voice carried over their babble. "No, I want all the stores brought inside... Well stick them against the doors; the crates can double as a barricade... We can't retreat, to go outside is suicide."

He issued them more orders, and a few dispersed. The Wardens' escort approached him, boldly elbowing a few of the others out of the way. "Ser, these folk have come in through the barrier."

Teagan's hazel eyes alit on them with keen interest. "Well done - Tomas, isn't it?"

"Yes, ser!" The archer straightened with clear pride at being recognized by his commander.

Bannon shot Alistair a look, wondering if he had any idea what this 'barrier' was. But the young man's attention was fixed on the bann.

Alistair stepped forward. "Bann Teagan," he said; "you probably don't recognize me, at least when I'm not covered in mud."

"Covered in...?" Teagan's eyes widened. "Alistair?"

"Yes, it's me," the Templar said with a sheepish grin.

The nobleman seemed genuinely pleased to see Alistair - relieved, even. "Thank the Maker you're alive! When we heard all the Grey Wardens had perished at Ostagar, we feared the worst."

Mention of that fateful battle erased the smile from Alistair's face. "Not all of them," he said darkly; "but near enough. My friend Bannon and I were the only ones to escape." He nodded at the elf. Bannon stepped forward and bowed his head to the nobleman.

Teagan's sharp eyes sized him up. Bannon couldn't read any conclusions in them. At least he didn't sneer or make a comment about elves. Bannon also quickly introduced Sten and Morrigan. He looked around for Leliana, but she seemed to have vanished. Or she was well-camouflaged. She had chosen to wear her Chantry robes for the audience with the Arl, rather than her armor.

"But how did you get here?" Teagan asked. "The road is blocked off-"

"It isn't," Alistair said. He glanced at Tomas. "And what did you mean about a barrier? And what in Thedas is going on here? Has this to do with Eamon's illness?"

"Tomas, go check on the road, see if the barrier has vanished."

"Yes, ser!" With a crisp salute, the young man hurried off.

Teagan drew a hand down over his face. "Maker, where to start? Eamon fell ill... it must have been several weeks ago now. Nothing could cure him." The bann paced a short distance, fueld by pent-up agitation. "Arlessa Isolde grew concerned - instead of sending our knights to Ostagar, she charged them with searching out the legendary Sacred Ashes."

"Which may have saved their lives," Alistair said darkly. "Ser Bryant told us this, back in Lothering." He bit his lip, recalling that doomed town.

Bannon added, "He said he hadn't any luck, so... the arl is still sick?"

"My brother has never been sick a day in his life," Teagan said heatedly. "Someone must have poisoned him."

"Loghain," Alistair growled. "He must have known Arl Eamon would have opposed him, and that he was his strongest enemy."

"But," Bannon said, drawing them back on track, "that fellow, Tomas; he said you were being attacked from the castle. Just who is attacking, and how did they get in there?"

"We don't know," Teagan said in frustration. He stopped pacing and looked up towards the glow of the stained glass windows. "Three... was it only three nights ago? A sortie of creatures came forth from the castle. They were like dead men - skeletons with strips of flesh and skin still holding them together. And a strange glow, almost like ghosts. We lost so many that night." The bann put a hand over his eyes. "Every night they attack, in greater numbers, while we lose more and more."

"Why do you not simply leave?" Morrigan asked.

"Do you think we haven't tried?" Teagan exclaimed. "We sent a rider with a message to call for aid, but a thorn barricade sprang up across the road. We tried to row out in the boats, but huge lake monsters arose and smashed them."

"There wasn't any thorn forest or barrier on the road," Alistair said, looking at his companions for confirmation, in case he'd missed something.

Morrigan said, "'Tis likely an illusion." She tapped her lower lip thoughtfully. "But magic to create undead phantasms is much too powerful for an ordinary mage."

"Blood Magic," Alistair spit. "But that doesn't explain why they're attacking Redcliffe."

"We haven't been able to get into the castle," Teagan said. "Any men we've sent have never returned." He looked between Alistair and Bannon, the ragged edge of weary desperation clear around his eyes. "Is there anything the Grey Wardens can do to help us? Will you at least stand with us and fight? Everyone who is left... left alive, is coming to shelter here for the night. We'll make our last stand at the Chantry gate."

"We'll do everything we possibly can," Alistair assured him.

Morrigan said, "You cannot be serious. We should leave these doomed weaklings to their fate."

Alistair whirled on her, his face darkening. "I've had just about enough of you! Shut up about how weak and stupid everyone is, and do something to help!"

Bannon stepped in before there was bloodshed. "Alistair." He put a hand on the human's arm. Then he turned to the witch. "Morrigan, go check out this barrier, whatever it is. If you can't find a way to get through it, we'll be stuck here the same as everyone else." Alistair fumed beside him, but he had to couch it in a way the witch would understand. Besides, if she really couldn't dispell the illusion, she'd have to face up to being as doomed as the rest of the weaklings.

Morrigan nodded curtly and stalked off in typical hauteur.

Bann Teagan said, "We are grateful for any help you can lend." He outlined their final defense strategy, and directed them to coordinate with the town Mayor, Murdoch, and Ser Perth, leader of the small group of knights that had returned from the arlessa's quest. Teagan went back to fortifying the Chantry and organizing the influx of refugees.

Bannon found Leliana on the way out, to fill her in on what they had learned. She listened intently, her storm-grey eyes wide. "The situation is dire," she said. "Death awaits in the darkness. Light can help, but only heart can defeat it." Bannon frowned in puzzlement, wondering what she was artistically trying to say. Leliana clutched his arm. "Beware the shadowed one."

"Um..." He gently plucked her fingers from his armguard. "I will."

She blinked and drew back. "What do you need me to do?" she asked, her tone now solidly businesslike.

"See if you can help with the defenders, here." Bannon pointed out Bann Teagan to her. "If not, we'll be outside with this Murdoch fellow."

===#===

That Murdoch fellow turned out to be a sad-looking hound dog of a man, with bushy, dark moustache and muttonchops. He looked as if he hadn't slept for days, and he probably hadn't. "Arrows are next to useless against 'em," he was telling Sten and Alistair. "'Less you hit 'em in the head. Smashing or cutting will do. Then they fall into dust."

Sten grumbled to Alistair, "There are no darkspawn here. Why do we remain?"

"We have to," the Templar explained. "We have to help these people."

The giant was not moved. "You are Grey Wardens. You fight darkspawn. Not phantoms."

Alistair sighed in exasperation, then brightened when he caught sight of Bannon.

The elf went right over to the qunari. "Sten, you're a warrior, right? So if pirates or invaders attack a coastal village, you go and fight them. Right?"

"Yes." There was a trace of hesitation in the qunari's deep voice. Perhaps he sensed a trap.

"Well, if you fight them off, but a fire breaks out, do you just stand around while the buildings burn and say, 'We're warriors, we fight pirates, not fires'?"

"Of course not. That would be stupid."

"Well, these people are our allies," Bannon pointed out. "If we want them to help us fight darkspawn, we have to help them fight this curse - or whatever it is."

Sten grumbled unhappily, but, "Very well," he said.

That disaster averted, Bannon turned his attention to Murdoch. The mayor explained their situation.

Most of the town guardsmen and half the knights had been killed in the surprise attack on that first night. They'd made up the numbers with able-bodied men and women, but they were not trained fighters. The phantasm army seemed to grow each night as the defenders were whittled down.

It didn't make sense. What did they want? No one could get into the castle to find out. Whoever controlled the undead army hadn't issued any demands. And if all they wanted was to take over the town, why not let the townspeople run away?

The knights of Redcliffe were posted at the windmill, standing guard, watching the castle and acting as the first line of defense. Murdoch's other problems included a lack of supplies - weapons and armor, and the blacksmith refusing to work. There was also a little band of mercenaries, holed up near the docks, who refused to help in the fight. They were led by some dwarf named Dwyn.

Bannon decided a look around wouldn't hurt. Not that he was a military strategist by any means, but he knew a bit about facing bigger foes and fighting dirty. Not to mention how to hole up and hide when armed forces swept through your town looking to exterminate you.

He told Murdoch to divide his troops in half so they could rest in two shifts - whether they thought they could sleep or not. Tired and inexperienced men were twice as bad as rested ones. He sent Alistair to coordinate with the knights. Murdoch found Bannon a guide, a young elf with a short mop of blond hair, named Anselm.

===#===

He led the Warden and qunari the blacksmith's shop. The door was locked, the shutters closed up tight. Bannon banged on the door. "Hello?" He glanced at Anselm. "What's his name?"

"Owen."

"Hello, Owen?"

"Go 'way, Murdoch!" a deep voice bellowed from within.

"I'm not Murdoch," Bannon began to explain.

"Go 'way!" The voice meandered into a baritone warble. "Go 'way, go 'wa-a-ay; way awa-a-ay-!" It cut off suddenly. Then there was silence.

The two elves looked at each other. Anselm shrugged. Bannon wondered if Leliana wouldn't be more suited to this particular job. He rapped on the door again. "Are you still there? Owen?"

"Are you still there?" the voice echoed groggily.

Bannon rolled his eyes toward a passing cloud, taking his patience in a firm grip. "Yes, we're still here. We- look, this is kinda hard, talking through a door, here."

"Oh!" Something bumbled around within and the latch was drawn. "Swipe me for a tarpon, where's me manners?" The voice - Owen - slurred as Bannon eased the door open. "No call bein' rude..." He trailed off uncomprehensibly.

Bannon led his companions inside. It was dark, only one feeble oil lamp burned low. Owen was a hulking bear shape in the shadows. He turned around. "Oy! Who let you in here?"

"You did," Bannon said quickly. "Remember?"

"Eh? Oh." Owen swayed forward and blinked blearily down at him. "You's an elf. Din't know you's an elf."

"Didn't I sound short through the door?"

"Huh?" An aromatic cloud of breath washed over Bannon with the human's exhalation. Right, don't try to joke with an inebriated blacksmith.

Sten said, "I thought this was a blacksmith. Why does it smell like a brewery?"

Anselm replied, "He's been on a bender since this all started."

"A what?"

Bannon waved for them to shush. "Owen, I'm with the Grey Wardens."

"Cor! Streuth?" The man's eyes brightened. "Are you here to save us from this curse?"

"Well, we're trying," Bannon said, shoving a foot in the door of rationality in the blacksmith's mind. "But we need some help. We have a lot of armor that needs re-"

"No no no no! That lout Murdoch sent you!" Owen started wailing. "'E won't save my lovely Valena! She's gone. All gone. Far an' awa-a-ay...!" Big, fat teardrops rolled down the man's face to splash onto his tunic.

Bannon hesitated to console him. The man might breathe on him again, and he'd pass out. Why didn't he send Leliana on this job? "Who's Valena?"

"Me own lovely daughter, Valena. Gone up to the castle she did, to be a lady. Her Maw woulda been so proud!" He started sobbing again, collapsing onto a stool and laying his head on his arms on the edge of the forge. "Me precious baby girl is trapped up there and no one will go save her!"

"But everyone who's tried to get into the castle hasn't come back."

"They're all dead!" Vincen wailed. "My baby's gone! I have nothing left to live for." He buried his head in his arms again.

Bannon rubbed his forehead. How was anybody supposed to rescue his daughter if she were dead? Maker, he'd let them all die if he could just get rid of this damned headache.

Sten said, "It is your duty to perform your job. This... sentiment is useless."

Which just went to show why Bannon was stuck with this job. "Ignore my unsympathetic friend, here," he said placatingly. "Look, the Grey Wardens will go up to the castle after we defeat the attack tonight. We can look for your daughter then."

Owen looked up with wet, red-rimmed eyes. "You'll bring her back to me?"

"We'll do whatever we can," Bannon vowed.

"No!" One ham-handed fist pounded the edge of the forge. "No, that's what Murdoch said, and he ain't doing nothing, ain't he?" The blacksmith glowered stubbornly. "You promise me! Promise me you'll bring my Valena back to me."

Bannon hesitated. It wouldn't do to agree too easily, it would sound like a cheap lie. "Are you sure that's more important than finding out who is causing this evil? Of rescuing Arl Eamon?"

"Yes! Well... no." Owen sniffled guiltily. "Well... you can do all that first, but promise me you'll bring back my Valena!"

"All right, I promise." Bannon looked Owen in the eye. "But first, we have to defeat this phantasm army. And to do that, we'll need-"

"Arms and armor!" The blacksmith shot to his feet, mostly steady. He ran around like a whirlwind, throwing the shutters open, pumping the bellows, pulling various chains and tossing tools into some sort of chaotic order. "Arms and armor!" he yelled towards the townsmen practicing in the Chantry yard, like a battle cry. Or perhaps that was his usual market pitch. "Made and repaired by the best blacksmith in Redcliffe!"

"You're the only blacksmith in Redcliffe," Anselm pointed out.

Owen rounded on him. "Nobody else can run a smithy here, acause I'll out-do 'em every time, an' they won't have no custom!"

"Right, right; that's what I meant!"

Bannon snagged the young elf by the collar and dragged him out the door before Owen conscripted him to help with the bellows or other scutwork. "Come on," he grumbled. "This was so much fun, we might as well find Dwyn."

===#===

Morrigan walked back up the road that zig-zagged down the stone cliffs. She wondered how she'd gotten into this mess. Oh, she didn't mind travelling with the Grey Wardens - once they'd gotten the rules straight. And she didn't mind the fighting. She'd just never realized they'd have to deal with so many people. It seemed simple enough: the Grey Wardens would fight the darkspawn, along with the army. Anyone not capable of fighting ought to be hiding, or fleeing. Or at least stayng out of the way, but no! How did these people survive? From what she'd seen of Lothering and Redcliffe, they didn't.

She met that town boy on his way back. "It's still there," he informed her.

"This I shall see for myself," Morrigan said. She was not one to trust the dull and addled senses of an ordinary man. She brushed past him.

"Just be careful," he said, before scurrying back to town to report. As if she were some weak and helpless girl! Morrigan grit her teeth and exhibited mighty restraint in refraining from a reply.

She quickened her pace as she passed the upper bridge and the road grew more level. It seemed clear as far as she could see. Perhaps the illusion only worked on dim-witted creatures. In which case, she should have brought Alistair. Morrigan wrinkled her nose. Oh no, any break from that insufferable idiot was a blessing. How did she end up burdened with that fool? Ah, right: Mother's Grand Scheme. Morrigan shook her head. If only the Spirits hadn't conspired to make Alistair one of her targets. The elf was all right. Bannon seemed rather afraid of her. Of course, he was no idiot.

Be careful what you wish for, Morrigan mused. She _had_ wanted to leave the Wilds and that tiny little hovel. Get out, see the world. Get far away from her mother. Flemeth spent a great deal of time away from her home, since Morrigan had grown old enough to fend for herself. But being cooped up even a few days with that batty old coot was enough to make Morrigan just as-

Morrigan jerked to a halt, a bare armslength away from a wall of thorny vines. It hadn't been there before, it had just... appeared, between one step and the next, in the blink of an eye.

"'Tis surely an illusion," Morrigan said aloud. She glanced about self-consciously. Great, talking to yourself. The first sign of a mind getting a little wobbly on its hinges. Morrigan shook that thought off and eyed the thick growth, willing herself to see through it. The waxy green vines and long, black thorns refused to yield.

She should just ignore them and walk right through, if she were so confident it was an illusion. They only had power if you believed in them. If any sliver of doubt lodged in your mind... Morrigan eyed the thorns bristling towards her; seven-inch spines with needle-sharp points, aiming right at the tender flesh of her chest.

She turned away with a huff of frustration. She scowled ferociously, but when she turned back around, it was still there. She closed her eyes and pictured the empty road. Before she could second-guess herself again, she thrust her left arm forward.

"Ah!" She cried out and yanked her hand back. Blood welled up from a deep puncture at the base of her thumb. _Amplexus!_ she fumed, employing one of Flemeth's favorite expletives. She pulled a bandage from her kit and wrapped it around her hand.

Morrigan stepped back, scanning the thorn wall. It spread across the entire road, two wagon-lengths at least, tall as three men, and so dense that not a scrap of the landscape beyond could be seen. The witch started to feel uneasy. No mortal power could fashion such a thing, not instantaneously. Morrigan clenched her jaw and pulled her staff from its sling. She pointed the enchanted ironwood at the thorns and hissed a spell. Fire spewed out from the staff and clutched at the vines. But they were too green to burn. The fire died, leaving faint singe-marks on the thorns.

Morrigan bit her lip and tried another spell, spraying the wall with ice. Nothing could withstand cold. Frost thickened over the vines and thorns, turning into a brittle crystal shell. Morrigan swung the butt of her staff at the frozen plants. They failed to do so much as even crack. It was like striking a full grown oak tree.

Morrigan tried one of the city elf curses. "Shit!" She cast about one more time for a solution. The rock walls on either side of the road were not readily scalable. She crouched low. No, not even a space between the vines and their roots where a fox or hare could slip through. "Shit," Morrigan said again, rather liking the vulgarity of the simple word. But she would still have to admit defeat. She didn't like it - not one bit. Whatever was at the heart of Redcliffe's curse, it was very powerful. Perhaps even stronger than Flemeth. That thought was most frightening of all.

Morrigan turned back.

===#===

There were no less than six locks on the door, and even after Bannon got those sprung, there was a chain. Sten bumped it with his massive shoulder plate and the door broke open, bringing them face to face with a livid dwarf.

"What in the Name of the Shattered Stone do you think you're doing? Busting down my door!"

Bannon blinked and shrugged. "You didn't answer, we thought the place was empty." He smiled ingratiatingly and tried to push his way in, but two burly humans with crossbows pointed their weapons at his nose. "Oh, good! You have weapons." Bannon noticed more and bigger mercenaries in the back of the room. Dwyn did have his own miniature army. "See, we're recruiting all brave fighters to-" And suddenly he was talking to a slammed-shut door. "... Right," he called through the thick wood, "No brave fighters here, then?"

"I done told Murdoch it ain't got nothin' to do with us! Their be-damned ancestors want to lay a curse on 'em, let 'em!"

"So you're just going to cower inside there, hiding under your beds?"

"You're damned tootin', skinny-shanks!"

A fierce hammering and clattering rang out from the door as those within started boarding it up.

Bannon shrugged and turned to Sten. "If those are qunari mercenaries, don't they have to fight if they're paid? Isn't that what the Qun says?"

"They are Tal Vashoth," Sten said with a glower. "They have no honor."

"They're who?"

"Those who have abandoned the way of the Qun."

"Qunari who don't follow the Qun?" Bannon asked.

"They are not qunari!" Sten growled heatedly. "They are Tal Vashoth."

"The Tall... right, guys without honor. Got it." Whatever and whoever they were, they weren't any use. Bannon dusted his hands of the whole mess. To Anselm he said, "So where's the store?"

===#===

The store was a bust; the townsfolk of Redcliffe had looted it of anything useful. All that was left were a couple of books, some jars of buttons, and a passel of barrels that stank to high heaven. Fish oil, Anselm explained, for lamps. Well, for cheap lamps. Rich folk could afford more refined oil. Bannon jimmied open the till. At least the looters had honestly been trying to survive. He scooped the coins into his pouch. He handed Anselm five silvers and the elf shut his mouth as fast as he'd opened it. Sten, of course, didn't care if Bannon helped himself to... funds for the Grey Wardens' army.

Outside, they caught up to a boy lugging a large broadsword towards the Chantry.

"That warrior is too small," Sten said. "He should be sent back to the creche."

"How about you let me handle this," Bannon suggested. "What's your name?" he asked the boy.

"Bevin. Who are you?"

"I'm Bannon of the Grey Wardens. Where are you going with such a big sword?"

"It's my father's sword. I'm going to fight the evil creatures and save my sister. I'm a proud warrior, like my father."

Like his father used to be, Bannon figured. He noticed Sten about to say something else unsympathetic. He cut the qunari off. "Sten, why don't you and Anselm go on ahead? See if Alistair is back at the Chantry yet."

When he was alone with the boy, he said, "Don't mind him, he just doesn't think short people like us are any good at fighting."

"Well, I can fight," Bevin said stubbornly.

"I bet you can," Bannon said with a grin. "That sword looks a bit big for you though. Here," he drew his own sword; "go like this." He held the blade out at arm's length, angled just slightly up from horizontal.

Bevin pulled the big sword from its scabbard. Or rather, pulled the scabbard off the blade. He held it out in both hands, not quite strong enough to lift it in one.

"Right, good. Now let's lop off a monster's head." Bannon drew his arm back, stepped forward, and swung. His blade whistled through the air in a tight arc. Then he moved well back in case the boy accidentally flung the broadsword out of his hands.

Which is almost what happened. The weight of the sword almost tore it out of the boy's grip and threw him staggering off balance. His face crumpled up as he fought back tears. "It's too big!"

"Well," said Bannon placatingly, "maybe now. But when you grow up, it will be a good size for you."

"But how can I fight? My sister needs me now," the boy wailed. "Father's gone and- and they took Mother, too."

Bannon sheathed his sword and then unfastened his long belt knife's sheath. He handed it to Bevin. "Take this, it's just your size."

"Wow," the kid breathed. "A Grey Warden's weapon?" His eyes went wide over the gift. "For me? Really?"

"Sure," Bannon said with a crooked smile. It was really only a city elf's long knife, which had seen better days before Vaughn had nearly destroyed it with his sword.

Bevin juggled the knife, the sword, and its sheath awkwardly a moment, until Bannon helpfully took the latter to hold for him. Bevin affixed the knife sheath to his belt like a sword's, and experimentally pulled the blade out and give it a few quick cuts. "It's not very fancy," he said, his enthusiasm ebbing. "What are these marks?" he asked, peering at the dents Vaughn had left in the blade.

"No, it's not fancy," Bannon said; "It's made for fighting, not for show. And those are from darkspawn teeth."

"Really?"

"Oh yes, he was the biggest, ugliest, and meanest son of a bitch you've ever seen." The boy flinched at the bad language, but Bannon gave him a conspirational smile, warrior to warrior. "Then I stabbed him right in the heart with that very blade."

"Wow!"

Bannon laughed. "Don't worry, it's been cleaned since then. No Tainted blood on it."

The boy's eyes drank in the 'legendary' Grey Warden blade. "Does it have a name?"

"Splinter," Bannon replied solemnly. Very small, very annoying, and - as a carpenter's boy could attest - very painful.

"Splinter..." Reverently, the boy sheathed the knife. He looked sadly at the sword Bannon still held. "But... my dad was a guardsman - I mean knight. That was my grandfather's sword before then, too."

Bannon handed the sheathed sword back to him. "Bring it to Mayor Murdoch; he needs all the weapons we can spare. And tell him you're ready for duty; he should have an assignment for you. Double-time, soldier! Redcliffe needs its defenders!"

"Yes, ser!" The boy flung a salute and scampered off.

Bannon breathed a long sigh. Finally, a moment of peace, without someone hounding him about anything. He'd better get moving before some old lady asked him to help her across the street. "I need a drink," he grumbled.

===#===

Bannon found Leliana on the Chantry steps, talking to a knight. Sten waited nearby, managing to look both bored and impatient with the same blank, stony look on his face he always had. "How is everything going with the Chantry?" Bannon asked. "Have you seen -?" He blinked at the knight. "Alistair? Did you get a promotion?"

The young human flushed with a sheepish grin. He wore the light plate of the Redcliffe knights, with a chain hauberk. "The knights have... a few spare suits of armor." The smile vanished from his face. "This used to belong to Ser Andrew."

Bannon nodded solemnly. He turned to Leliana. She gave him a dark look. "May I have a word with you in private?" she asked.

The elf looked around at the crowded courtyard; the townsmen practicing, older children scurrying to and from the blacksmith's shop with weapons and bits of armor, the few straggling families pushing by to move into the Chantry. "Doesn't look like it," he said. He shot a glance at Alistair. The former Templar looked uncomfortably at his boots. He must know something, but he kept his mouth shut.

"Fine," Leliana said. "Do you want to explain to me why you gave a child a weapon and told him to fight in this battle? What were you thinking?"

This again! Why was he not surprised? "I was thinking," he growled, fighting to keep his voice level, "that Murdoch could use a good sword, and that he _might_ be smart enough to assign the boy to defend his sister from inside the Chantry, where he would be safe."

Leliana bit her lip and lowered her head. Bannon continued viciously. "What did you want me to do? Steal his father's sword? Tell him he's useless and doomed to die?" He snorted. "That's Morrigan's job."

"I'm sorry," Leliana said. "I'm afraid I've misjudged you again. I really-"

"That's fine," Bannon cut her off impatiently. He rubbed his forehead. "Where is Morrigan, anyway? Has she come back yet?"

"Maybe she escaped that barrier," Alistair said egarly. "And she ran off never to return." He smiled with humor.

"That would be really bad," Bannon said, in no mood for jokes. He asked them again for the status of the Chantry and the knights.

Bann Teagan had things well in hand at the Chantry. The knights were prepared for tonight's assault. There were only sixteen left; they didn't believe they'd live to see the dawn. If their sacrifice would save the people of Redcliffe, they wouldn't mind so much, but they held little hope that the curse could be ended by mere fighting.

"The knights have asked the Revered Mother for a blessing before this last... before this battle," Alistair finished, chewing his lip in concern. "But Ser Perth says she's refused them, and that's shaken their morale."

Bannon cursed underbreath. Leliana said, "Why does she refuse them?"

"I don't know, but I gather she's lost her faith in the Maker."

"All right," Bannon said. "Leliana, can you talk to this Revered Mother?"

"Of course."

"Alistiar, go to the knights and tell the leader to come down here."

Alistair blinked. "Me? I don't have any authority to be ordering knights around."

"You're a Grey Warden," Bannon told him. He huffed with impatience. "Never mind. Anselm!"

Bannon called for the elven youth again, and he appeared from the ranks of the militia. He'd gotten himself a bow from somewhere. "Yes, ser?" he asked with an eager grin.

"Anselm, go run up that hill and find the knight- what's his name?"

"Ser Perth," Alistair supplied.

"Find Ser Perth and tell him the Grey Wardens want him to come down to the Chantry yard for a strategy meeting."

"Yes, ser!" The boy's grin widened. What elf couldn't wait to order some knight around? He ran off to do so.

A moment later, Morrigan appeared and came over to them. "The situation is dire," she reported.

Bannon grimaced. "Try to keep your voice down."

"I don't see how it matters; they are doomed whether they know it or not."

Alistiar growled, "Haven't you ever heard that 'Ignorance is Bliss'?"

Morrigan arched a brow at him, new understanding dawning on her features. "So that explains your perpetual cheerfulness." Alistair's face reddened.

"We don't have time for this," Bannon snapped. "Morrigan, just tell us what you've learned."

She confirmed the existence of the barrier, and its impenetrability. "This is no mortal magic," she warned, keeping her voice low as requested. "And worse than Blood Magic."

"An abomination?" Alistair asked. Bannon didn't know what that was, exactly, but by the look on the Templar's face, it was bad.

"Whether 'tis a mage with a demon thrall, or the other way around, I cannot say. But mark my words, a demon is involved."

"We have to get into the castle," Leliana insisted.

"That's not going to happen today," Bannon said. "There might be a chance after the battle." _If anyone is left_, he added to himself. "All right; Leliana, Alistair, you speak with the Revered Mother. Sten, Morrigan; we're going to meet with the mayor and the knight commander. If you can think of any strategy to give us an edge, it would help."

===#===

"Revered Mother Chantrise," Leliana said, with a courteous bow to the Chantry leader. "May we speak with you?" Alistair, beside her, bowed with a hand to his heart.

The Revered Mother was a tall, thin woman. Her long brown hair was drawn back into a loose braid. "You are not a Sister with this parish," she observed.

"No, your Reverence. I am Sister Leliana. This is Alistair, a Grey Warden."

"Has the curse been broken?" the Revered Mother asked. "Is Redcliffe free?"

Alistair said, "I'm afraid not, Revered Mother. But we are hoping to get to the bottom of this after the battle."

"Are you from Redcliffe? You look like one of our knights."

Alistair ducked his head sheepishly. "I am from Redcliffe, but I'm not a knight. I was training with the Templars before I became a Grey Warden."

She nodded. "What may I do for you, Warden?"

"We've come to beseech the Maker's blessing for the knights."

Mother Chantrise's eyes darkened. She turned away, her neck bowed. "The Maker has no blessing for us," she said hollowly.

"You've lost your faith?" Leliana asked gently. She had a considerable amount of experience with that.

"I have seen the horrors. I have seen good people trapped here, doomed to die." She paced a short turn, and stopped to look out the thick, rippled glass of her office's small window. "The Maker has forsaken us."

"That's not true!" Alistair siad.

Leliana laid a hand on his arm. "Revered Mother, the knights still hold to their faith. It would mean a great deal to them. It would give them heart, courage, and strength to face these foes."

"You want me to lie?" Chantrise turned back to them. "Speak empty words to thin air? How is that to help them? False hopes, nothing more would this bring."

"It would mean so much to them," Alistair said. "Can't you bring yourself to do it just for that alone? These men are likely to die tonight."

"I have nothing to give them," Chantrise whispered, her voice like dry leaves on the wind.

"Alistair, let me speak to her alone, please." Leliana looked at the Warden. He chewed his lip, then nodded. He walked out to the main altar and knelt, joining the others in prayer.

Leliana moved to Chantrise's side, touched her elbow. She looked up into the woman's face. _This might be me someday,_ she thought. An older, wiser woman, the faint brush of age around her eyes. Would it be so hard to keep the faith in a jaded world? But Leliana knew the touch of the Maker. "There are many who believe the Maker has forsaken us," she said. "Is that not what the Canticle of Threnodies teaches us? That man desecrated the Golden City of heaven and were cast down, shunned by the Maker, yes?"

The Revered Mother nodded.

"It seems to me there are those in the heirarchy of the church that would profit greatly if the Maker were absent from the world, and stayed that way."

Chantrise gasped. "That's blasphemy!"

"No, it is not." Leliana pinned the woman with her gaze. "Blasphemy is to speak out against the divine. The leaders of the Chantry are mere mortals, yes?" She knew she was on thin ice with her radical views, but the Revered Mother had already lost her faith in her god. "I do not believe the Maker would be so petty and cruel as to abandon His creation. And to demand we cross the world, speaking the Chant of Light over all the lands before he will deign to forgive us?"

"It is what the Chantry teaches us."

Leliana pressed forward intently. "It is what the words of men say. What does your heart tell you?"

Mother Chantrise closed her eyes for a long moment. She clasped her thin hands together at her breast. "I don't know," she whispered. "Why would we suffer so, if it is not the Maker's plan?"

"Why would the Maker curse Redcliffe?"

"They say it is because the Arlessa, Lady Isolde, refused to send the knights to combat the Blight. That instead, she sent them on a selfish errand."

Leliana tilted her head. "To save Arl Eamon from his illness?" How was this selfish?

"Yes." Mother Chantrise looked at her. "What is one man's life compared to saving thousands from the Blight? No prayers nor magic could cure the Arl. They say it is his fate to die now."

Leliana had to admit she had no answer to that. "She must love her husband very much."

"She loves his power," the Revered Mother said harshly. "Without it, Redcliffe would not accept an Orlesian arlessa's rule."

Ah, politics and religion. The world was never easy; not all love and heroism as the bards painted it. Leliana bowed her head in personal guilt. But she had put that behind her and had taken up the Maker's work. "The curse is not from the Maker's hand," she said. "We believe an abomination is the cause."

The Revered Mother blanched. "How- how do you know this?"

The Chantry held itself responsible for controlling every mage in Thedas, for protecting them and the world from their demonic possession. It wouldn't do to tell her about an apostate like Morrigan. "Alistair," Leliana said.

"The Templar who became a Grey Warden." Mother Chantrise looked to where Alistair knelt, head bowed in piety.

Leliana nodded. "Your Reverence, I do not believe the Maker has abandoned us. A creator does not shun his creation. A father does not cast out his children, no matter how wayward. The Maker does not live in the dry parchment of books or in the thin air of words. The Maker dwells within our hearts." If only she could make this woman see! "The knights will take comfort in your blessing, if you can find the Maker within your own heart. It shall awaken the spirit of the Maker within theirs, and it will help us to conquer this evil."

"And... if I cannot feel the Maker's presence?" She looked down at her shaking hands.

Leliana took the Mother's hands in her own, gently. "What is faith, but the conviction in things we cannot physically touch?" She placed Chantrise's hands upon her own bowed head.

Hesitantly, the Revered Mother said, "Walk in the spirit of Light, Sister."

Leliana felt a faint warmth washing over the Revered Mother's cool hands. The spirit within her leapt. Something passed between the two women, but in which direction, she could not tell. Leliana looked up. Mother Chantrise's eyes held a new spark.

"I... I can do it, then."

"Yes, Your Reverence. You can make all the difference in the world."

===#===

"All right," Bannon said to the assembled leaders; "I want someone to jam the gate. Cut some logs, wedge them through the portcullis holes."

"It's already locked from the inside," Murdoch said.

"Well, we want it locked from the outside. If they can't get to us, they can't hurt us."

Ser Perth said, "We will hold them as long as we can at the gate, then fall back to the end of the lane, where the windmill stands." He crouched to sketch the layout of Redcliffe's road in the dirt.

"That is not a secure point," Sten said. He appropriated the knight's stick. "A better choke point is here, at the bridge."

"We can fall back, if we are overrun at the mill."

The giant shook his head. "No, there is a steep section in the road just past the mill. You would not have good footing, and your enemy would be above you."

"I see your point, ser giant."

Bannon flicked hair out of his eyes. "If we could get them bunched up at the gate, maybe we could burn them all. There's oil in th-"

"No," said Ser Perth.

"No way," Murdoch said, shaking his head. Bannon looked at them questioningly. "We tried that," the hounddog-faced mayor said. "The second night." He shuddered.

Ser Perth said, "Fire can destroy them, but they aren't slowed down by it. We set them alight and... they just kept coming. They closed with us, burning like vengeful spirits." He swallowed thickly. "I lost eight men that night."

Murdoch said, "Fire ain't going to work. Hacking them to bits is the only sure way. Sometimes taking their heads off, or an arrow to the brainpan."

Bannon chewed his lip. "I have an idea... Where's the carpenter's shop?"

===#===

The Wardens oversaw the final battle preparations. There was nothing more to be done, not by them, and it was time for Bannon's enforced second shift to get some rest. The Wardens and their companions made their way to the inn overlooking the town. The elf's head was pounding, and he hoped a little wine would ease the tension and let him rest. And maybe, just maybe, the daylight hours would protect him from the night horrors of the Archdemon whispering into his mind. He'd just about kill for a few hour's peaceful rest.

===#===

* * *

><p><em>Afterword:<em>

_Alistair: "The knights have... a few spare suits of armor. This used to belong to Ser Andrew."_

If you look at the list of animations in the DAO toolset, you'll see a few labelled 'Andrew;' apparently the ones for the endgame where Alistair is with Anora. It's my guess that Andrew was the character's working name before they changed it to Alistair. Much for the better, in my opinion.

_Ser Perth: "Fire can destroy them, but they aren't slowed down by it. We set them alight and... they just kept coming. They closed with us, burning like vengeful spirits."_

This is a remark about what happens if you use the oil in the game. Brilliant plan, right? Right, if only the stupid knights and your stupid companions didn't RUN INTO THE BURNING TRAP and DIE A HORRID DEATH from it.


	6. Redcliffe Tavern

Redcliffe Tavern

**Content:**

Rating: Teen

Flavor: drama

Language: some

Violence: threats

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Notes:_

Of course, this fool tavern has no name. Speaking of horrid names, no I didn't have one for this part. Except "Spying."

Last part was very long. This part is much shorter. Next part... probably long again.

* * *

><p><strong>Redcliffe Tavern<strong>

===#===

Lloyd's Tavern stood on an overlook above the town of Redcliffe proper. It was wedged against the hard cliff, and the builders had made the floorplan crooked in order to maximize the flat space available. It was small and cramped, but spotlessly clean, and had more than its fair share of dimly-lit corners in which to lurk. Or they would be, if it weren't broad daylight outside. All-in-all a nice place to conduct clandestine business.

Completely marring the effect, however, was this 'curse' hovering over Redcliffe. The tavern wench, Bella, had listened with sympathy to Zevran's vague tale of being a servant to an Antivan merchant who had been eaten by darkspawn. Then she totally trumped that tale of woe, rather gleefully informing him he was now trapped in Redcliffe with the rest of them. While the assassin was used to dealing with snags in an otherwise perfectly sleek and glossy plan, he had to admit that this one was the most unique.

He ordered one ale and nursed it, alone at his table in a handy nook. There were few other tavern patrons, and the talk was all the same. They only confirmed Bella's wild story. So. Zevran was stuck here.

He'd left his mercenaries on a stretch of road outside of Redcliffe, a lovely boxed-in area that couldn't be more perfect for an ambush if it had been built specifically for that purpose. He'd left his weapons and armor, let down his hair to help hide his tattoo, clapped a straw hat on his head, and headed into town to spy on the Grey Wardens, intending to return before nightfall. _Brasca._ Well, one thing at a time.

Zevran couldn't see the door from where he sat, but no one missed the group coming in. A redhead in Chantry robes, a knight, an elf, a barbarian woman, and a giant. They glanced over the few patrons that were here, then went to the bar. As for the patrons, they all stared back. These could be none other than the mighty Grey Wardens.

Lloyd the barkeep was built like a shank of ham. He brought his considerable bulk over to them. "Are you the Wardens we've been hearing about, then?"

"Yes," the knight said.

"Name's Lloyd. You here for a drink?" he asked rather forcefully. "I have some other goods, too. Figured since the shop closed down, I could pick up the slack."

"We'd like a meal - a big one - and some rooms."

Lloyd's eyes glinted with the prospect of silver. "Forty-eight," he named the price.

The elf slapped something onto the bar. "This is what you're getting," he growled. "Seeing as your 'fine inn' might not be here come morning, you might want to consider a generous discount to those defending it."

That shut the fat shem up. He scooped up the coins into one meaty hand. "Bella!" he shouted. "See to these guests, girl."

The Warden's group dispersed to a table across from the bar. Zevran kept his head down over his mug, but his ears perked up under his hat. Howe was right, one of the Wardens _was_ an elf. So absorbed was Zevran in contemplating that, he didn't notice the dark-haired fellow had left his companions until he heard his voice.

"Hey. It's good to see another elven face around here."

Zevran raised his eyes. The Warden had his back to him, talking to that other elf, the one with the bow across his back, but no armor. The Warden, in contrast, had both bow and blades, and hard-used armor.

"Just because you're an elf and I'm an elf doesn't mean we should be friends," was the acerbic reply.

"Are you with the militia?" the Warden asked, tipping his head at the bow.

"Not really looking for conversation," the elf replied, his whole body tensing.

"All right, fine." With an exasperated huff, the Warden turned and went back to his companions.

Zevran slowly lifted his mug and drank it down as he studied his target. The elf was handsome enough, riding the ragged edge between scruffy and rakishly touseled. He had a faint trace of lines between his brows as if suffering from a headache. Zevran tipped his chair back and lowered the brim of his straw hat over his eyes. Feigning a weary farmhand, he could watch the group from under his lashes.

They talked over the various plans they had for the town's defenses as they ate. The Wardens comandeered the lion's share of the food - Zevran wondered how they'd even be able to move, let alone fight. The dark-haired woman said something; her voice cut through the quiet conversations of the small tavern, even the militiamen at the table next to Zevran's. "- doomed. Why we should waste our time is beyond -"

"Morrigan!" the elven Warden cut her off sharply. "You've tested the ways out; we're stuck here. If you think it's so hopeless, then you can lie in your bed tonight with the covers over your head while the rest of us fight for our lives!"

"No, I-" The woman looked like a cat who'd been suddenly doused in cold water. "Of course you need my help."

Snarling, the elf snatched the bottle of wine from the table and stood up. The human man grabbed his arm. "I don't think-"

"Alistair, shut it!"

The human flinched as the elf tore his arm free. Zevran closed his eyes and held his breath as the Warden blew past with a storm's fury. He disappeared up the rickety stairs.

Zevran eased his eyes open. The redheaded Chantry Sister was saying something to the man, but the group next to Zevran were talking too loudly about the Grey Wardens for him to hear. He opened his eyes wider, peering intently to try to read her lips. Something about 'worse.'

The man - he must be the other Warden Howe mentioned - had his back to Zevran. He said something, shaking his head and gesturing helplessly.

The Chantry Sister's beautiful lips moved so sensually, the words were entirely lost on Zevran. Her eyes darkened with concern, then she rose and followed the elf upstairs. Interesting.

Bella came over. Giving up his feigned nap, he gesture for her to refill his mug. He folded his arms on the table and let his head and shoulders slump. He stared sightlessly into his ale, concentrating on trying to pick out the threads of conversation from the noise of the table next to him.

The rest of the Wardens' group finished their meal shortly. "Well, we have a few hours," the human Warden said. "We should try to get some rest." He and the dark-haired woman filed up the stairs, but the qunari left the inn.

Zevran curled his hands around the mug. His heart began pounding. His targets were upstairs, each with his woman. In a little while, they'd be asleep. Not deeply, perhaps, but a stealthy elven assassin would never disturb them. A swift strike of the poisoned dagger, and his contract would be fulfilled. His hands tightened on the mug. The only Crow in the history of Antiva to kill Grey Wardens! His fame would be immeasurable. His heart thumped faster. He could even see the incredulous look his Master's face would bear. Yes, tinged just so with that edge of fear. Even the legendary Grey Wardens would not stand up to the legend of Zevran Arainai. His lips parted in the ghost of a feral grin.

Then he lifted one hand and chewed thoughtfully on the corner of his thumbnail. But... There was the problem of the curse upon Redcliffe. That elf had said the stories were true, one couldn't just leave. Bella had spoken of impenetrable thorn forests and tentacled lake monsters. Though an Antivan Crow was never completely unarmed - he had his dagger, a pair of small throwing knives, and a small vial of concentrated poison - he could hardly take on monsters or undead hordes. Hmm... yes; better to leave the Grey Wardens as they were, let them deal with this curse. His trap would still await them afterwards.

Zevran smoothed his face and calmed his bloodlust. Then he glanced over at the unfriendly elf. He smiled again and went over there. He slid into the seat next to the elf as the latter was quaffing his drink. The elf nearly choked.

"Look, I don't want any company," he growled.

"You don't want any attention," Zevran said softly, his voice lower than the elf's. "Are you an assassin? Waiting for your prey?"

"Wh-? No."

"You just like to lurk suspiciously?"

"I'm- I'm not lurk- no!"

"Oh, that was convincing," Zevran sad dryly. He leaned his left forearm on the table and crossed his right under it. He let the dagger in his right hand slide out just enough to let the elf see it. He tapped his forefinger down decisively on the blade. The elf's eyes widened. "Now," Zevran purred conversationally; "it would really be a whole lot easier if you just answered my questions."

"D-don't hurt me," the elf whispered. "Look, I'm not doing anything - I'm _not_. They just want me to keep a watch on Redcliffe and report back. That's all."

"Who are 'they'?"

"I don't know." The elf blanched as Zevran frowned at him. "There's a guy, he hired me. Tall, very tall. He never gave me a name." He licked his lips nervously, eyes darting as he searched his memory. "He said he worked for some nobleman up north. Um... Howe. Arl Howe."

Ah, old rat-face himself. Zevran relaxed a notch. They were working for the same man, so this spy oughtn't be a threat to the assassin's own plans.

He continued pouring out information, however. "I sent them a message when the arl got sick. But I had nothing to do with that, I swear. I sent another message after the curse hit, but... I don't know if it got through."

Zevran tipped his head. "How are you sending these messages?"

"Messenger birds."

_Brasca_. Well, so much for a secret goat path or tunnel leading out of here. Zevran fixed the spy with a threatening glare. "After the Wardens leave - assuming they are successful - I may return with a message for you to send." He made the dagger vanish. "Until such time, you have not seen me."

"Y-yes, ser."

===#===

Leliana tapped lightly at the door to Bannon's room. "Warden? May I speak with you a moment?"

"What now?" was the irate reply.

Leliana took that as invitation enough to enter the room. It was rather small, with room only for a washstand and bed, and a storage chest by the door. The elf sat on the edge of the bed, tipping back the wine bottle. He lowered it and let it dangle between his knees.

"You know that's not good for you," Leliana said.

"Oh! The nun came to preach at me." Bannon's eyes drifted to the tiny window. "What a surprise."

Leliana sat on the chest, facing him. "I know you have trouble sleeping," she said gently, determined not to get caught up in his animosity. "Trouble with the nightmares that Wardens suffer."

"Noticed that, did you?"

"And you must have noticed, that this drinking has had no effect on them." He frowned at the bottle as she went on. "The only effect it has is to make you stupid, clumsy. It makes you sick; it gives you hangovers." She didn't hold back. There wasn't much use; he already didn't like her.

"Worked on my headache," he grumbled, not looking up. "Until now," he added in an even lower voice.

"I know we haven't gotten along very well." She forged on, ignoring the slight. "I have misjudged you badly, and I am truly sorry for inadvertantly offending you." He stared at the bottle, a thoughtful look on his face. "You are a Grey Warden, of great importance to this world. You do see this, yes?"

Bannon closed his eyes. "I don't want to be imporatant. I just want some rest."

Leliana leaned forward and put her hands over his. He looked up, and she met his eyes. "I know. But you are very smart, Bannon. You have to see, this is not the answer." Gently, she tugged the bottle from his grip. His fingers went lax, allowing her to take it. She set it aside and took up his hands again. His fingers were long, supple and strong, growing calloused from bladework. Leliana stroked them soothingly a long minute.

Then she took a small knife from her belt pouch and put it into his hands. It had a smooth wooden handle and a short, single-edged blade that curved up to a point at the end. "I want you to have this."

A faint line creased his brow. "Is this to replace the knife I gave that kid? It's a little small, isn't it?"

"This is not for fighting," she told him. "It is a carving knife. You said you were a carpenter, yes?" She searched his face, unsure now if he'd been joking. His expression was murky, unreadable.

"Yes, but what am I supposed to do with this?"

Leliana thought of a smart remark Alistair might say to that, but she feared offending the elf again. "You should try to work with some wood," she said. "Do something constructive instead of fighting all the time. Just... I think it will help you. Help you to relax."

"I could whittle myself to sleep?" He cocked a brow at her, and she bit her lip, feeling foolish. But then he relented. His face smoothed as he looked down at the carving knife, turning it over in his hands. "Thank you," he said finally. "I... Look, I'm sorry I've been short-tempered, and I haven't been very patient with you."

"That's all right."

"No, it isn't." Bannon rubbed one hand over his face. "I'm usually better than this." His deep brown eyes looked into hers. "I apologize too, Leliana. Maybe... after this mess is over, we can talk some more. Get to know each other better."

Leliana smiled. "I would like that." She stood and placed one hand lightly on his forehead. "May the Maker watch over you." And then, she shouldn't have, but she couldn't seem to resist brushing her palm over his hair. Quickly, she turned and left the room.

===#===


	7. Night Battle

Night Battle

**Content:**

Rating: Teen

Flavor: epic battle

Language: some

Violence: whole lotta

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Notes:_

I will probably now lose my credibility as a 'realistic' fight scene writer. But oh well, it will be cool!

"Hold Forth Andraste's Soldeirs" is based on "Onward, Christian Soldiers" (of which I know neither the words nor the exact tune), and any battle anthem by Manowar.

* * *

><p><strong>Night Battle<strong>

===#===

Zevran contemplated the irony of life.

The comely tavern wench had mentioned that Lloyd hid himself in the cellar every night and let the phantom horde pass him by, while the more valiant men and women of Redcliffe fought them. Zevran thought this a fine and practical idea. He'd been strolling into the town proper to find such a bolt hole when he'd been impressd into service. They'd shoved a bow into his hands and sent him off with Ser Vincent.

Which is why he was now standing here on the narrow wooden walkway that joined the cliff road to the sawmill. Except it no longer joined, exactly. They had torn up the planks between their station and the road, to prevent these phantoms from turning and attacking them. Zevran presumed the things could not fly.

He and two other elves stood near a brazier. One was a tow-headed kid and the other - one of the ironies Zevran was contemplating - was that spy from the tavern. Beads of sweat, like jewels in a tiara, popped out on the spy's forehead every time he glanced at Zevran. Zevran, for his part, ignored the other elf as if he didn't exist.

Zevran stood in front of the burning coals in the brazier to preserve his night vision. It also kept his face and distinctive tattoo in shadow. He didn't think the knight would notice or care. Ser Vincent had been sorely wounded. He sat in a chair, his mangled leg propped up on the walkway rail. His face was white beneath a dark beard and he carefully measured out medicinal doses from a bottle of whiskey. True to his chivalrous calling, he was trying his hardest not to get drunk and pass out on duty. Each time he gulped a swig, he grimaced and cursed. Zevran suspected he was growing tired of waiting. The assassin sympathized.

When night had fallen and the gibbous moon rose over the lake, the defenders of Redcliffe could see their foes boiling out of the castle and coming inexorably across the bridge. The phantom army raised a faintly-glowing miasma around them, like a cloud of dust. The evil mists gathered force at the bridge gate and... stopped. Whatever the small contingent of knights and Grey Wardens had done, they'd effectively halted the onslaught. The rest of the defenders had been getting bored waiting. Or... at least Zevran had.

Ah well, it was marginally more fun than holing up in some dank cellar. Or so he assured himself.

At last the ring of metal on metal drifted down the road. Zevran perked up his ears and craned his neck to see. After a few minutes, the knights jogged down the hill in an orderly retreat. They passed the end of the broken walkway and gathered in a wider section of the road just before the bridge. The far side was bordered by steep rock and a pile of wooden containers; the near side by a sharp drop-off a few storeys high. There, the defenders turned to once more engage the pursuing phantoms.

The creatures looked solid enough, save for a faint green luminescence about them. They were human-looking but clearly dead, their faces no more than grinning skulls. Zevran nocked an arrow and drew the fletching smoothly to his jaw. He sighted down the shaft at the milling figures. Such chaos on the battlefield; anyone could be felled by a stray arrow. The Wardens' giant was easy to spot; the Wardens themselves, not so much. The human had been wearing armor just like the knights. Ah, yes - there. The one in the mis-matched helmet.

Zevran parted his lips and exhaled gently, like a lover's sigh. He loosed the arrow.

The Warden was surprisingly quick. He whirled at the last moment, just as the phantom behind him dropped like a stone, an arrow in its skull. Zevran saw a flash of surprise, lost in an instant as the Warden turned to a new foe.

The assassin slowly drew another arrow, listening to the faint caress of the shaft against the wood. The elven Warden was more difficult to spot, almost impossible to track. He moved swiftly, not in a panic, but in effective viciousness.

Zevran let fly again. This Warden was nowhere near the shaft by the time the arrow sped past him and buried itself in a phantom eye socket. The creature pitched back, lost among its fellows.

"Hey," Ser Vincent barked; "Quit wasting arrows."

"I assure you," Zevran told him levelly; "as soon as I miss, I will cease."

===#===

The knights and Wardens gave ground, but grudgingly. A phosphorescent river churned against the dam of the defenders. Mortal men grunted in effort, or pain. Metal rang out as weapons and shields clashed. The phantoms screeled eerily, their shouts like ghostly whispers. Zevran calmly loosed his arrows into the fray. He hadn't missed yet.

As the line of defenders moved back towards the bridge, the road widened, allowing more of the undead warriors to reach the knights. Somene yelled a signal, and magic flared. The front row of phantoms turned to ice, and the knights fled.

"Sten, hold the bridge!"

The qunari giant stopped at the middle of the span and turned, allowing the rest of the defenders to flow around him. The two Wardens were the last. The undead creatures were clawing at their frozen comrades, intent only on passng the obstacle. They tore limbs and heads off in their frenzy. Then the dam broke and they rushed the lone figure standing there with legs braced, hammer gripped in both hands.

Screaming for blood, the phantoms lunged. The qunari swung his hammer in a lazy arc, appearing to put little effort into it. A swath of phantoms went over the side of the bridge, half of them smashed by the hammer, the other half battered to pieces on the rocks in the cascade. Then the hammer swept back, felling another row. Then another. The massive hammer swung like a pendulum.

At the far end of the bridge, someone had grabbed a torch and was waving it. "There's the signal," the elven spy said excitedly. "Ser Vincent!"

"I see it," the knight growled. He braced his crutch and heaved himself upright. With one last look of disgust at the whiskey bottle, he hurled it into the brazier. Flames leapt up from the coals. "Arm!" the knight barked.

Zevran put his arrow away and picked up one of the pitch-dipped ones. The other two elves held theirs nervously, waiting for the orders to light and fire them.

Ser Vincent stared past them, squinting against the fire's light. His eyes darted side to side, watching the lower end of the road, where one lone giant had the horde stopped cold, and the upper end, where more of the creatures were still coming.

Several tense moments passed, counted out by the rhythmic swing of the qunari hammer and the pounding heartbeats of the archers.

"Light!"

The elves dipped their arrows into the flames then put them carefully to string.

"Draw..."

They weren't aiming at anything. The stacks of barrels and crates lining the curve of the road were literally as broad as a barn; it wouldn't take a crack shot to hit them. The elves held their bows drawn, flames licking the ends of the arrows.

"Ser...," the kid said nervously as the knight withheld the order to fire.

"Not yet."

"These are going to burn out," Zevran griped.

"_Not yet._"

The patch of road swarmed with the phantasmal mass. They gathered to rush the qunari.

"FIRE!"

Three flaming arrows streaked over the heads of the undead warriors and thudded into the wooden barrels. And then, nothing happened.

"Light!" Ser Vincent barked again, and the elves selected fresh arrows. "Draw..."

Three of the ghostly warriors took notice of the archers. They began to edge out on the two struts the held up the walkway.

"Uh, Ser...!" the kid gulped.

"Ignore them. Fire!"

Again the arrows hit their mark with nothing to show for it. Zevran cursed the idiot who'd laid this trap. Hadn't they opened the barrels of oil? The fool knights should have slashed the kegs open as they retreated at the very least.

The undead warriors on the walkway struts were getting closer. Their jaws gaped in glee at the prospect of slaying some weak and vulnerable archers. Fortunately, they were also as clumsy as regular shems. As they rushed forward, they tripped or slipped, and fell crashing to the stone far below.

"Fire again!" Ser Vincent said, voice rising in panic.

_Brilliant plan_, Zevran thought sourly. He lit and shot another two arrows while his comrades managed one more volley.

Zevran had a third arrow on the string when the oil went up. It didn't just burn; it caught alight too hot, too fast, and far too strong for its containers. Huge fireballs blossomed along the line with a tremendous thunderclap. Zevran slitted his eyes as the wind flung particles of dust at his face, but he couldn't turn away. In an instant, the fire burned an image into his eyes, the image of splintered wood and nails spewing out at the phantom warriors, ripping, _shredding_ right through them.

When his ears stopped ringing, he could hear himself laughing. Oh, that had been _marvelous!_ The entire section of road lay covered in the limbs and glowing miasma. If they had been flesh and blood... Zevran felt a tightness in his groin at the thought of such carnage. He grinned like a maniac.

The remains of the barrels burned hot, loosing dark, greasy smoke into the sky like a twisted banner. The stragglers at either end of the trap, many of them burning, stumbled forward towards the bridge. The Wardens' qunari fell back, and a ring of knights at the far side dispatched the remnants of the horde. There rose a ragged cheer, echoed by the townsfolk, further below.

Then, as if in answer, came an angry roar from the castle across the lake. The entire edifice shimmered in sickly green light. A column of green and black smoke rose from the highest tower.

_This can't be good_, Zevran thought.

"How do we get down?" the spy asked the knight.

Ser Vincent chewed his moustaches nervously. "This way. Like the rest of the deadwood." He stumped towards the sawmill, where a winch and platform stood overhanging the lake.

===#===

Bannon took a deep breath. It was his last and only chance for one. His trap had worked better than his wildest imaginings, and the undead horde had been defeated while the night was still young. He let a cocky congratulatory grin spread across his face as he looked over to Alistair. The other Warden grinned back. The knights let out a whoop as the last of the phantom army dissolved into mist at their feet.

The celebration was short-lived. Whatever mage or demon was in the castle, it made it's ire known. "This can't be good," Bannon said.

The pillar of magic began spilling down the sides of the castle, like sickly water in a fountain. Clouds boiled and clumped and began to take form. Ghostly screams echoed across the water. The drumming sound of hooves and shrill whinnies bespoke of the army now forming.

"They're coming across the lake!"

Ser Perth shouted, "Knights! To the Chantry!" He led the weary warriors down into the town.

Bannon turned to Morrigan, who was staring at the surge of magic pouring from the castle. "Morrigan?" The witch was smart enough that he didn't have to voice the whole question.

"'Not good' sums it up quite nicely."

"Shit. Let's go."

===#===

"Move those barricades! _Move! Move!_"

"They're coming from the shore!"

"Form lines! Hold fast!"

The defenders scrambled to turn their barricades around, faces pale and drawn even in the ruddy firelight.

"Morrigan," Bannon said breathlessly, trotting beside her; "how long can you keep casting ice?"

"That would depend on how fast I cast it. I will need to conserve my energy if this battle is expected to last until dawn."

"I need an estimate. Just tell me how often you can do it."

"Without casting any other magic? Two or three minutes." Morrigan followed him as he leapt aboard a wagon serving as a barricade. "I'll still tire, eventually."

"All right." Bannon nodded as if he had an idea what she meant. "You! You lot, stand here and defend this gap." A group of burly men armed mostly with farm tools formed a ragged line. Bannon waved over some archers. "Up into the wagon." There weren't many, but then he spied some elves with bows trotting out of the darkened town. "You three! Over here!" Bannon had an idea, but looking at the sweaty, scared faces of the townsfolk, he didn't know if they could accomplish it properly. Well, he had to give them something. And keep it simple.

"Listen up!" he said in his hardest battlefield voice. "You're going to hold the enemy here. When Morrigan gives the signal, drop back. Fall back right away, or you're going to get frozen." He looked over at the witch. "Morrigan will freeze the phantoms. You archers: they'll be just like the targets you've been shooting at all day - they'll stand still." Someone coughed a nervous laugh. Bannon grinned wryly. "Shoot 'em in the head, just like at practice."

"Piece of cake, Warden," Anselm called.

Bannon shot him a confident grin. "Good lad!"

A movement near the center of the defenders' circle caught everyone's eye. Bannon turned with the rest and saw Leliana climbing an upturned wagon. She wore her old robe as a tabard over her armor, the sun symbol of the Chantry gleaming in the torchlight. It was slit up the sides to leave her legs free, showing the leather guards.

"Sweet Andraste," the Sister's voice rang over the defenders; "Hear our call! The blessing of the Maker shine over us."

===#===

Zevran didn't know whether to laugh or curse fate. No sooner had he extricated himself from battle than he got drawn back into it. And that kid had called the elf 'Warden.' Zevran hadn't gotten a good look at him in the dark and chancy torchlight, but the elf now stood not three paces from him, back turned, consulting with that mage of his.

Zevran stared. His hand itched to take his dagger and plunge it into that unsuspecting back. _What are you thinking?_ he snarled silently. He rubbed his palm on his shirt, trying to relieve the itch. _You want to get out of here alive, don't you?_ He frowned. He busied his hand with grabbing an arrow and putting it to string. The phantom army would be on them momentarily. The Warden's plan was simple and neat. And of course, doomed to fall apart at the first engagement with the enemy, like every military plan did.

===#===

Alistair trotted after the knights. "Polearms!" Ser Perth called. They didn't have lances, so they made do by pulling up some of the smaller sharpened stakes in the barricades. Ser Perth directed them to the wide avenue leading to the lake, positioning them between the approaching army and the Chantry.

"Sweet Andraste, hear our call!" The knights turned to the battle angel standing atop the highest barricade. "The blessing of the Maker shine over us." A shimmery light rose above Sister Leliana, bringing a gasp of wonder from more than one throat. The light glimmered and strengthened, rising over the defenders. Alistair touched a hand to his throat where he used to wear the symbol of Andraste. Around him, the knights performed the same obesiance. Leliana began to sing _Hold Forth Andraste's Soldiers_, her voice gaining strength as others began to join in.

"The Maker is with us!" Ser Perth called. "Form the line!"

Alistair turned towards the lake and set his feet in a ready stance. He slid his back foot out a bit further, then lowered the butt of his big pointy stick to the ground. _This is one thin line,_ he thought, without wavering.

They could hear the pounding of hooves now, which was truly odd, as the horsemen were galloping over water. As crazy as _that_ sounded. Maybe it was all a dream. Alistair twisted his spear, grinding the butt more firmly in place.

"The buildings will slow them down," someone said.

"We hope."

Ser Perth called out, "Stand fast, men! We are knights of Ferelden!" A flash of white showed through the opening of his helmet as he bared his teeth. "It will be just like the battle at River Dane!"

The knights cheered. Alistair's mouth twisted in a bitter grimace; he couldn't join them. River Dane had been the battle where Loghain had become the Hero of Ferelden. Now he was a coward at best; at worst, a traitor.

Alistair did raise his voice with the next cheer. "For Redcliffe! FOR FERELDEN!"

...

_Hold forth, Andraste's soldiers;_

_Our voices raised in song._

_Hold forth, ye faithful soldiers;_

_Maker's Love will keep us strong._

_...  
><em>

The phantom horsemen rushed between the buildings, flowing like a river. They came barrelling down the main street, shrieking their war cries.

"Brace!"

As one, the knights raised shields, ducked heads, and lowered their makeshift pikes. The front line of horsemen hit them with an audible crash. Alistair felt as if he were battling the ocean. He held his breath at the impact. A horse and rider impaled themselves on his spear, dissolved into heavy mist, and broke over him.

Ghostly screams filled the air, as did the echoes of whinnying horses.

"Brace!"

Another wave washed over the knights, who stood like a dam before it. A few human cries answered the phantom screams, but the knights stood fast.

The charge had been broken. The horsemen milled about in turmoil, then they wheeled away and formed up for another charge.

"Hold the line!"

...

_Carry on, Andraste's soldiers;_

_Never falter, never stray._

_Carry on, world-weary soldiers;_

_Maker's Light will guide our way._

_...  
><em>

Alistair blinked sweat out of his eyes. The rushing in his ears lessened, and he could hear the defenders singing. His heart swelled in his chest. This was where the battle line was drawn, and they weren't going to give an inch of it! Not while they had breath in their bodies. With a roar, Alistair pushed forward, meeting the charge with the face of his shield and the point of his spear.

...

_Stand fast, Andraste's soldiers;_

_Our faith will be our shield._

_Stand fast, world's bravest soldiers;_

_To Evil, never yield._

...

The enemy hit the knights with an impact that seemed to tremble the whole battlefield. Men and metal screamed. The line buckled. Alistair felt the men to his left falling, staggering back. He shoved a phantom beast off his shield and stabbed it with his spear. As its fall created a brief opening, Alistair tossed the spear up to reverse into a throwing grip. He took a step forward and threw with the might and power of a Grey Warden.

The spear flew through the neck of the fallen rider, two phantoms beyond it, and lodged in the ribs of a third. The fallen knights staggered back up, those that still could. The line rippled and re-formed, but began to fragment quickly. With a roar, Alistair drew his sword and launched an attack on the enemy. He swung his sword like a scythe, felling the undead like wheatstalks. He pushed deep into their ranks. They would not get to the villagers he protected, not easily.

===#===

The rest of the battle was lost in a haze. The light was a dim, ashen grey. Few torches still sputtered, giving little light and no comfort. All over the are of the battle, the ghostly miasma gave a faint luminescence. As it dissipated, the bodies of the dead and the blood of mortals was revealed.

Alistair trudged wearily towards the Chantry. His sword nearly dragged on the ground; his arm hadn't the strength to lift it to its sheath. His left shoulder burned. His shield hung like a lead weight. The Redcliffe device on the front had been scored by a blade, the tower was now broken with a jagged streak like lightning. All Alistair could think was, there should be more blood. There was no blood on his shield, nor on his chestplate, helmet, or gauntlets. He'd been fighting, but there was no enemy blood on him.

A weak gasp drew his attention. He stopped trudging to look around. There, where the green mist was leaking away, lay a body. "Ser Perth!" Alistair's voice came out a hoarse croak. He hurried to the knight and dropped to his knees beside him, his sword clanging to the ground. He worked his tongue to try to lubricate his voice. "Someone! We need help, here!" He bent over the knight. Ser Perth was covered in blood. Why was Alistair's armor clean?

Ser Perth opened his eyes and reached weakly for Alistair's arm. "Andrew..."

"It's Alistair," the Warden replied gently.

The knight didn't seem to hear him. "Tell Mother... Tell..."

"He was your brother," Alistair breathed. He hadn't known. "Tell her what?" The knight didn't respond. "I'll tell her, I promise. Ser Perth? Stay with me!" He clutched the knight's hand. "You'll tell her! You'll be able to... Just hang on."

It was too late. The light went out of Ser Perth's eyes. Slowly, gently, Alistair lowered the knight's hand to his chest. He closed the staring eyes, then turned up his own hand to look at the gauntlet. Now there was blood on his armor. Alistair hung his head.

===#===

* * *

><p><em>End Notes:<em>

- _In an instant, the fire burned an image into his eyes, the image of splintered wood and nails spewing out at the phantom warriors, ripping, shredding right through them._

Nailbombs, baby! Got to love them carpenters!


	8. Redcliffe Castle

Redcliffe Castle

**Content:**

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama/Adventure

Language: some

Violence: yes

Nudity: no

Sex: no

Other: dogs are killed

_Author's Notes:_

I managed to cut some detailed conversation scenes down into quicker summarizations. Well, just some of them. At least they are blending together properly. I've been studying people's techniques.

The dog-killing is the last part on the end. You can skip that if you want.

* * *

><p><strong>Redcliffe Castle<strong>

===#===

Sten sat on his knees, his back straight, his head bowed, hands resting on his thighs. His eyes were closed. His maul lay crosswise on the ground before him. Despite the number of people crowding the Chantry courtyard, a clear space had formed around the stationary grey giant.

He was on a grassy patch near the well, so Bannon gratefully dropped to the ground and leaned back against the stones. He had a gash in his left arm, and the left side of his face was sticky with dried blood. Sten seemed to have fared better. He had any number of light gashes in his torso and arms, but his armor seemed to have foiled most of the blades. He had a wide swath of bandages wrapping one treetrunk thigh. It was tinging to pink as Bannon watched.

The qunari sat still, his horns sweeping back from his skull and pointing to the sky. His breathing was deep and even. Bannon couldn't tell if he were asleep or praying. Leliana came around the well as other Sisters from the Chantry worked to draw water. She wore a bandage across her forehead like a headband. She went to Sten with a small bottle. "This is the healing draught, Sten."

The qunari opened his eyes. "I thank you." He took the potion and downed it in a gulp. He set the bottle down by his maul and re-closed his eyes.

Leliana turned to Bannon and knelt before him. Instead of offering him any of the elfroot elixir, she took a wet cloth and began bathing his wounds. "Let us see how you fare." Quickly and neatly, she bandaged his arm. Then she gently tugged at his damaged leather helm.

Bannon winced. "Easy - don't tear my ear off." He was deathly afraid that the long point of his ear was going to fall out of the helmet once she got it off. Like most young male elves, he was rather vain about his ears. "Is it notched?" he asked when the worst didn't happen. Would it be a rakish notch, or an ugly chunk taken out of the sweep of his ear?

She laid aside the helmet and carefully began wiping blood off. "Hold still," she insisted as he squirmed. "It's just a scratch. You ought to be more concerned with this gash in your head."

"Do I need a healing potion?" he asked, letting a thin whine of pain infuse his voice. He squinched up his lower eyelids as he looked up at her.

Leliana scanned over the Chantry yard before answering him, perhaps calculating how many healing potions they had on hand, and how many people needed them. "That may perhaps be best," she agreed. She gave him a small vial of the reddish liquid.

"Thank you." He tipped his head back to swallow the draught and didn't have to feign wincing from it. He grimaced and handed the vial back. Then, nodding to her own bandage, he asked, "Are you all right?"

"Yes, thank you. It looks much more serious than it is."

Morrigan made her way over to their little clearing. She had dark circles under her eyes, and apparently didn't even have the energy to snap at the people in her way. With weary grace, she dropped to the ground on the other side of Sten.

Leliana brought the witch a dipper of water. "That trickery with the magelight was entirely unneccesary."

"'Twasn't my idea," Morrigan replied tartly.

Bannon said, "I thought it was quite effective at boosting morale."

Leliana shot him a look, but quickly smoothed her features. If she had any further comment, it was forestalled by the approach of Bann Teagan.

Heavily favoring his right leg, he limped around the well and stood towering over Bannon. "Warden," the bann addressed him.

Bannon scrambled to his feet and immediately regretted it. He pressed a damp cloth to his aching head. "Yes, ser?" Dammit, he was a Grey Warden, he didn't have to bow and scrape to this nobleman. He should have stayed lounging arrogantly on the ground.

Teagan smiled grimly. "This is the first time we've defeated these phantoms, thanks to you and - where's Alistair?"

Morrigan said, "Most of your knights perished. He was with them, and likely suffered the same fate."

The bann paled.

"No," said Bannon. "He's over there."

Teagan turned to where the elf pointed. "I don't..." He squinted. "Where do you see him?"

Well, Bannon didn't, really. The Chantry yard was crawling with townsfolk, and one short elf couldn't see much. He couldn't put into words how he felt or sensed Alistair. The other Warden was merely a presence he was aware of. "I saw him earlier," he said, because it was easiest.

The bann untensed. "Good. We should strike out for the castle now that the way is clear."

"Right now? We haven't had a moment to rest. We need at least a little time to recover."

"We need to move swiftly."

Sten opened his eyes. "I agree."

"We'll move more swiftly if we have something to eat," Bannon insisted. Sten might have unlimited energy, and the nobleman had only fought in the back ranks, not on the front lines where the fighting had been thickest.

"The Warden has a point," Sten admitted. All right, maybe qunari giants did get fatigued.

"Very well. I'll send someone to the tavern to fetch you some food." The bann turned, scanning the crowd with a worried frown. "Meet me by the flour mill when you are ready." He limped off.

Bannon sat back down. His head felt better. He carefully cleaned more of the crusted blood off the side of his head. The flesh was knitting due to the healing potion, but it was still tender.

"Warden! Warden!"

Bannon groaned, stifling it before anyone heard it. It was that kid, the one with the sword. A young woman in a peach-coloured dress, bearing a basket on her arm, followed in his wake.

"Katy, this is the Warden I told you about," Bevin said excitedly. "This is my sister, Kaitlyn."

She gave Bannon a dark look. Ah, of course, she'd also want to chew him out for encouraging a child to fight. He ignored her and smiled at Bevin. "Did you get any phantoms in the battle?"

"No," Bevin said heavily, his young body slumped in disappointment. "Mayor Murdoch said I was too young. I had to go stay inside like a baby!"

"Well, it's a good thing," Bannon said. "We needed more defenders on the inside, in case they broke through. It was a very close thing."

"Really?"

The elf flashed Kaitlyn a quick wink. "Absolutely. It's a good thing you were ready."

The kid brightened and pulled out the dented belt knife. "Splinter woulda taken care of those monsters!" He brandished the blade.

"Bevin!" his sister cried. "You shouldn't be waving that thing around. It's dangerous!"

"But, sis! It's a Grey Warden weapon!"

"Your sister is right," Bannon told him sternly. "A Grey Warden weapon is not for showing off and flashing around. You need to be more disciplined and handle it with respect."

"Yes, ser." Mollified, Bevin put the knife away.

Bannon smiled up at Kaitlyn, and this time she smiled back. "I do want to thank you for finding my brother and getting him back to the Chantry. I was worried sick about him."

"I was coming right back," the kid complained.

Kaitlyn put a hand on his head with an indulgent smile. "Is there any way I can repay you?" she asked Bannon. "I wouldn't mind at all; I am very grateful for your help."

"Well," he said, "we could do with some food."

"Oh! Of course." She smiled and swung the basket off her arm. "I have apples."

Bannon took the whole thing. She seemed surprised. "Thanks," he said with a sparkling smile. "Sten here is very hungry. Aren't you, Sten?"

"Yes."

The elf made sure to nab at least five apples for himself before relinquishing the basket to the qunari. Leliana and Morrigan weren't shy about helping themselves, either. They thanked Kaitlyn (well, Leliana did, anyway). She invited them to her home after this mess was cleared up, if they had time to visit and have a meal. Then she excused herself to help with the rest of the wounded while her little brother scampered off to get into mischief.

All right, Bannon thought; a shem cooking for an elf. It paid to be a hero! He wondered if she were dimpling at him in a suggestive manner, or if that was just her natural way of smiling. She was a fine-looking human with fresh, youthful skin and a skein of blonde hair. Of course, if he made a mistake reading her intentions, there might be a lynch mob in it for him. He munched his apples in deep thought.

Alistair finally came over, looking half dead, though he didn't seem to be hurt. Leliana fussed over him, and Sten let him have a few apples. Then the serving girl Teagan had sent to the tavern brought them bread and cheese, and a jug of wine. The Wardens wolfed down most of the food, and this seemed to revive Alistair somewhat.

===#===

Rested and refreshed, the Wardens and their group went up the road to meet Bann Teagan. The bann stood gazing across the gulf between the cliffs and the castle. The edificie looked perfectly normal and benign in the early morning light.

"I thank you again, Grey Wardens," Teagan said without preamble, turning as they approached. "Alistair, Bannon." He met both their eyes. "This is the first time we've exhausted the enemy's numbers and left none to return to the castle at dawn. I believe it is now safe - at least relatively - to enter the castle. I propose we-" He stuttered to a halt. Gaping in surprise, he raised a hand and pointed behind them.

Bannon turned, gripping his sword hilt. He relaxed when he saw it was only a woman running awkwardly towards them. Alistair, in constrast, caught one sight of her and tensed as if for battle. He shrank back slightly between the elf and the qunari.

The blonde woman was richly-dressed in cream satin and red velvet. The mud of the road was was ruining her slippers. A single guardsman trotted behind her. Her round face was blotchy red with exertion. Her generous bosom heaved. "Teagan," she gasped, accenting the second syllable in fluted Orlesian patois. "Oh, Teagan; thank the Maker!" She stumbled to a halt and cast a confused look at the group by the mill. "Who are these people, Teagan?"

"Lady Isolde." The bann found his voice and regained his composure. "These are Grey Wardens and their company. This is Warden Bannon and..." He trailed off awkwardly.

Alistair shuffled a half step forward. "It's... Alistair, Lady Isolde."

"Alistair?" A brief look of - fear? scorn? - flashed over the lady's face, replaced quickly by yet more puzzlement. "What are you doing here?"

A simple question, but laced with a clear preference that he be elsewhere. Well, this was just grand. As if the phantom menace weren't enough, now Bannon had to deal with noble family politics. He answered for the Wardens. "We're here to help the people of Redcliffe, and to seek aid from Arl Eamon. Is it safe to enter the castle now?"

Isolde's eyes widened with fear. "No," she said tremulously. "No, you mustn't come to the castle." She turned to the bann once again. "I was only given a short time to come and find you. Connor... he isn't well. You're his uncle, Teagan. He needs you."

"But why can't we take the Grey Wardens?"

"And who is it exactly that let you out?" Bannon cut in. This smelled like a heavily-baited rat trap.

"There is... something terrible in the castle," Lady Isolde said, wringing her hands. "It... it keeps us trapped there. It has killed almost everyone. At night, it raises the dead and sends these ghosts to attack the village."

"Why is it keeping you alive? What does it want?"

"I don't know!" she wailed. "Please, Teagan, without his father, Connor is... is lost and afraid. You must come with me!" Tears spilled from her eyes.

"All right," said Teagan, placing his hands comfortingly on Lady Isolde's arms. "I will go with you. Compose yourself my lady; I need to leave instructions with the Wardens before I go." She nodded and found a lace kerchief to wipe her face. Teagan beckoned the Wardens to step aside for a private conversation.

"Ser," Bannon said; "this has got to be a trap."

"I know. But... I have an idea." Quickly, he outlined his plan. He would go with Isolde and try to hold the attention of whoever or whatever this 'something terrible' was. He gave Alistair his signet ring and instructions on finding a secret escape tunnel that would get the Wardens' party inside the castle walls. "Do what you have to, to save Eamon. Never mind the rest of us, we are expendable, but he is not."

===#===

The tunnel was entirely unpleasant. First, of course, there were interminably long ladders descending a chimney in the cliff, to down below the bed of the lake. The passage itself was black as pitch and damp. Water trickled down the walls and puddled in some places on the floor. Occasional spatters from the ceiling threatened Leliana's sputtering torch. The weaving she did to avoid them didn't help the chancy light. The constant gurgle made Bannon acutely aware of the vast lake of water over their heads. Was this little worm tunnel about to collapse? He tried to hurry his steps and almost trod on Alistair's heel.

"Ow!"

"Sorry."

To distract himself - and Alistair - Bannon asked, "Who was that woman back there?"

"That was Lady Isolde. After Arl Eamon's first wife died, he married a younger noblewoman from Orlais."

"She doesn't seem to like you."

"Ah, no. She despises me, really."

"Why?" Leliana asked.

"My mother and I worked in Eamon's castle. The thing is, it was no big secret that I was a bastard, but _whose_ bastard, that was another story." He bit his lip as he ducked around a low-hanging rock in the ceiling. "Of course, everyone just assumed Eamon was my father. And his pretty new wife didn't like the rumors of his indiscretion running around in her new home," he added bitterly.

Leliana asked, "Didn't the arl tell her the truth?"

The Templar shrugged. "The truth didn't matter, did it? It's what everyone thought - what they believed. Lady Isolde used to give my mother the coldest looks. When she took ill and died, I was certain Lady Isolde had put a curse on her." He blew out a breath. "Arl Eamon was kind enough to take me in and foster me in the castle. But Lady Isolde made sure my life was a living hell. She blamed me for... I don't even know what! She just hated me.

"Then when she got pregnant and had a son... She was always like a hawk, watching me with those hard eyes, judging me, waiting to swoop in with her talons bared."

"What a horrible thing to do to a child!" said Leliana.

"Well, you can't blame her."

"Like hell," Bannon muttered.

"She was just looking out for her own interests."

They slogged through another puddle, and Leliana asked, "Why didn't Eamon put a stop to this?"

"She was the arlessa!" Alistair said. His voice rose, years of misery finally working free. "It was her right to punish the servants as she saw fit. Anyway, she was his wife. I wasn't even related to him!"

"But he must have cared for you," Leliana insisted. "He did take you in when you were orphaned."

"Yeah, or maybe he was just keeping a leash on Maric's royal bastard," he growled bitterly. "When their son Connor was born, she must have given Eamon an ultimatum. He sent me packing off to the Templars. Without even asking me what I wanted, or talking to me about it at all. I was so furious with him for taking her side! I grabbed the nearest thing I could, it was a necklace I had, with Andraste's symbol on it, and I hurled it at the wall. It shattered into a million pieces." Alistair hung his head. "It was my mother's necklace. It was the only thing I had left of her. I was so stupid."

Leliana touched his arm with her free hand. "It's not your fault, Alistair."

Bannon chewed on his lower lip. He looked down at the boots he wore, his mother's. He hadn't really given them much thought. They were practical and serviceable, not really much in the way of a sentimental keepsake. Adaia had lived in poverty, her family had never really held on to anything. "It isn't things that are important," he said. "It's your memory, your love you need to keep." He stopped as the others looked at him. A fat drop of water splashed his head. "Can we speed this up? I'd like to get out of here sometime this morning."

===#===

The end of the tunnel contained, predictably, yet more ladders. The companions climbed until they came to a slab of stone. Bannon was at the top; they passed the signet ring up to him to unlock it.

"Don't drop it," Alistair quipped.

"If we do, you're going after it," Morrigan growled.

"But I'm not the one at the bottom," he said down to her. "I can't climb past you on this narrow ladder."

"No one said anything about you using a ladder."

The secret door slid open and Bannon scrambled up into an empty storeroom. He cast about quickly, but there were no guards. He helped Leliana up, and the two of them went to peer through the door as the others climbed out.

The door led directly out onto a dungeon corridor. The place stank of rotting corpses. Wrinkling his nose, Bannon moved down the hall. The cells were empty; the smell was coming from a pair of dead bodies at the guard station. He started past them when a voice nearly made him jump out of his skin.

"Is someone there?"

It came from the first cell. The companions gathered around as a gaunt figure lurched towards the bars. It was a skinny young human male, so pale he almost looked like a ghost. His hair was dark and lank, a few days growth of beard dusted his face. As he came into the torchlight, they could see he'd been tortured. Angry burn marks striped his chest, his arms. He wore but a soiled breechclout.

"Who are you?" Alistair asked. "Who did this to you?"

"My name is Jowan. I'm- I'm a mage."

Bannon asked, "What are you in for?"

"I... that's complicated." Jowan swallowed dryly. His pale blue eyes darted. "Please, have you anything to eat? No one has been down here for days."

"Sorry," Alistair said compassionately.

Sten said, "Another unchained _saarebas_. It is a wonder your country still stands."

This provoked an argument from the witch. "All right, shut up!" Bannon snapped. To the prisoner he said, "Uncomplicate this story of yours real quick; we have things to do."

"Lady Isolde threw me in here when bad things started happening in the castle. She blamed me for the demon; said I summoned it, but that's not true." He licked his cracked lips. "They- they tortured me to make me stop it, but I can't! I didn't have anything to do with that, I swear!"

"Do you have any idea who did?" Alistair asked.

"Yes. It's Connor. Lady Isolde hired me to tutor her son in secret-"

"Connor's a mage?" Alistar gaped.

"Yes," said Jowan. "Please, let me out of here. I want to help pay for my mistakes."

"Of course we'll help you," Leliana said, touching his hand where it clutched at the bars. Alistair turned to find the keys.

"Hold it," Bannon said. "What mistakes? I thought you said you had nothing to do with this demon, or the things going on in this castle."

The prisoner blanched. "I didn't!" he insisted. "It's... I... I poisoned the arl."

"You're the one who tried to kill Eamon?" Alistair growled. He stepped threateningly towards the bars.

"No!" Jowan shrank back. "I- I didn't want to poison him, but I had no choice! They- they forced me to do it."

"Who did?"

"Some royal guards." Jowan's face wrinkled in sorrow. "I'm an apostate. They captured me in Denerim. The Templars were coming for me. Some high-ranking official told me he'd get me away from them if I poisoned the arl of Redcliffe." He sobbed dryly. "I didn't want to! I had no choice. I- I didn't use enough, and he only took ill."

Alistair said, "Why didn't you just go back to the Circle with the Templars?"

"They weren't going to take me back," Jowan insisted desperately. "They were going to execute me!"

"But they don't just execute apostates." Alistair frowned. "Unless..." His eyes widened. "You're a Blood Mage!"

"No!" Jowan went pale. "No! I- I only dabbled in the forbidden arts, so I could escape the Tower. There was no other way!"

"Maleficarum!" Alistair spit. "They use blood to power their magic, usually the blood of innocents. They can control people's minds, summon demons-" The incensed Templar overrode the mage's protests. "He must be the one who summoned the demon into the castle. We ought to execute him."

"No! No, please, I beg you! I can help, I swear!"

Bannon weighed the options. "So... he's a liar, a fugitive, a poisoner, a demon-summoner, and a Blood Mage?" Only an idiot would trust this man. Bannon shook his head. "Kill him or leave him there; we don't have time for this."

"No!" Jowan scuttled back in his cell, out of sword reach. "Please, I'm not a bad person! I only did it so I could live my life, and be with the woman I loved!"

"And now it's a sob-story." Bannon rolled his eyes and turned away.

It was useless trying to kill the maleficarium; he wouldn't last much longer in his cell, anyway. Alistair and the others followed the elf.

Morrigan paused and looked back at the broken mage. "You poor bastard," she said. "Just look what they turned you into."

Jowan collapsed in a sobbing heap.

===#===

Bannon and Alistair were halfway to the door leading upstairs when the Templar tripped and fell with a loud clanging of armor. Annoyed, the elf turned to help him up. "Dammit, Alistair; can't you- _oh shit!_"

Alistair hadn't tripped, he'd been pulled down by one of the guard corpses. As bloated and flyblown as it was, it had grabbed his ankle and was even now struggling to stand upright. The second jailer was halfway up and leering at Bannon with one swollen eye. The other eyeball stayed rolled up in his head.

The elf pulled out his sword and brought it down on the thing's head with a jarring crunch. It had no effect, and the elf cursed again. He slashed across the thing's face and instantly regretted it. Congealed blood, like black pudding, splattered thickly out of the cut. "Ugh!"

"Hold still," Morrigan commanded. A moment later, ice sheathed the corpses. Sten stepped in and smashed each one to bits with his maul. Chips of frozen meat flew everywhere.

"Thanks," said Bannon, finding something to wipe his sword on.

"I guess phantoms aren't the only dead things we need to worry about," Alistair said glumly.

===#===

Blessedly, when they got upstairs to the main floor of the castle, they left behind the dampness and corpse-stink. The halls were deserted, eerily quiet, but well-lit and... almost cheerful.

"I think we're near the kitchens," Alistair said. "I wonder if they've got any breakfast on."

"You can't possibly want to eat at a time like this," Morrigan complained.

"Grey Wardens require a lot of food," Alistair recited.

"A logical excuse for your gluttony."

Bannon's nose twitched. "Smells like sausage." He followed the eager Templar down the hall. "I could murder a sausage right now!" His mouth watered.

Morrigan grumbled. "They ought to be called the 'Gravy Wardens'." She shared a commiserative sigh with Leliana.

Alistair found the kitchen door where the delicious smells were emanating. He flung it open and stopped dead. Bannon smacked right into him, nearly spraining his nose on the Templar's shield. Alistair kept backing up, pushing the elf back and almost off his feet. Bannon danced around to the side. "Wh-?" He looked at Alistair; the man's face was white and tinging green. Then he looked into the kitchen. He felt the blood drain from his own face. Quickly, Bannon grabbed the door and shut it.

"I don't think I'll ever eat sausage again," Alistair said weakly.

Bannon swallowed thickly. "Come on, let's keep going." He glanced back at the other three companions. Thankfully, they didn't ask.

===#===

They turned the corner and froze. A big tan mabari lay across the middle of the corridor, gnawing on a bone. It was the biggest damned dog Bannon had ever seen. Its neck and shoulders could fit a bull. He did not want to fight this thing, but it was blocking their way.

"Charger?" Alistair said quizzically.

The mabari's head whipped around. Its eyes glinted red as it growled low.

"Easy boy," said Alistair. "It's me. It's Alistair."

"Alistair," Bannon hissed; "I don't think-"

But the human wasn't listening. He moved forward, his empty hands held out placatingly. "Here, Charger. There's a good boy. Remember me?" Oh, brilliant! The kennel boy has come home.

As it stood, the mabari dropped what it had been chewing on. The long bone still had five digits dangling from the gristle at one end. As the dog turned, a small ribcage behind it was revealed. Very small. Alistair paled.

Thick saliva oozed from the mabari's jaws as it lowered its head and growled again. Lips peeled back from thick, stained fangs. More mabari hounds entered the corridor from a side door behind it. They looked gaunt, unkempt. Their eyes glittered with feral red light.

"Oh Maker," Alistair breathed; "what have they done to you?"

With a bestial roar, the lead mabari charged. The pack fell in behind him.

Alistair fled.

_Dammit!_ Bannon would have followed, but he was rooted to the spot. If he tried to run, he'd trip and fall, and they'd be on him, snapping and tearing. Well, hell; they were going to do that anyway if he didn't _move!_ Bannon threw himself to the side.

Sten stepped up. The head of his maul impacted with an airborne mabari resulting in a deep crunch and a high-pitched yelp. The pack flooded around the giant and two mabari fastened their teeth onto his leg, jaws finding purchase behind the leather greaves. The qunari cried out as they tried to hamstring him.

His cry was nearly drowned out by the deep baying of the dogs. "Keep them back," Bannon yelled, but he could barely hear himself. He slashed at the milling dogs before him, not hoping to hit, but just to keep them off. A tawny brindle cut through his guard. It reared up to seize his arm, but never got the chance. The maul smashed down, crushing the dog's skull and compressing its spine.

Bannon whirled around behind Sten and sank a blade into the flank of one of the dogs tearing at the qunari's leg. He stabbed for the other, but it let go to dodge away.

Leliana fell back. She'd fired her crossbow once, not sure if she hit anything. She had to drop the weapon to pull out her short sword.

Beside her, Morrigan cursed the confining hallway. She backed away from the dogs as well, raising her arms as she gathered her power. In moments, she let it burst forth, expanding her shape into that of a great bear. She let out an ear-splitting roar, throwing the mabari pack's challenge back in their faces. She lunged, swiping with great sickle claws. Jaws snapped, bones crunched, blood flew. Growls, roars, and yelps filled the air.

In short order, silence descended, broken only by the heavy bellows of the bear's lungs. She lay on one side, exhausted but unharmed. Her thick fur had protected her from the mabari jaws.

Leliana hurried to see to Sten's leg. Bannon wiped blood and drool off himself and his weapons, then set off in search of Alistair.

The Templar hadn't gotten far - there wasn't anywhere to go except into the kitchens or back down into the dungeon. He huddled in the corner by the door, his arms over his head.

"Alistair. Alistair, hey! It's over." Frowning, Bannon walked closer to him.

"He was just a puppy," he whimpered. "When I left... just a pup..."

"It's just a dog."

"He was my friend!" Alistair lowered his arms to put his face in his hands. "They were my only friends... The dogs; Charger, Sabaton, Merri and Tori, Lion, Galoot..." Anger tinged his voice. "None of the other children liked me. Not the grubby little bastard. The stupid, clumsy idiot. The useless waste. Good for nothing but taunting and laughing at."

Embarassed, Bannon looked away, fidgeted. "Come on, man." He wished Leliana had been able to go after the Templar instead of him. "You're a Grey Warden, now. They respect that. What you did at the battle last night-." Alistair peerd up at him. "They all saw you tear into that horde." Bannon bit his lip. "You know I'm your friend," he said. "And I need your help. Without you, I... I'm all alone." He took a breath as that realization set in. "Come on, you have to be strong. We're going to get this bastard demon."

Alistair clenched his jaw. "All right." He stood.

Bannon had to lead him through the carnage. Alistair's face was wet by the time they got to the end of the hall, but he made no sound, said not a word. He pointed out the way to the castle's main hall.

Leliana retrieved her crossbow and reloaded it. Morrigan returned to human form. She leaned heavily on her staff. Sten limped in silence behind them.

===#===


	9. The Demon of Redcliffe

The Demon of Redcliffe

**Content:**

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: some

Violence: yes

Nudity: no

Sex: no

Other: some gory blood magic

_Author's Notes:_

this was meant to be part of the previous section. but that didn't happen in a timely manner. that's why it starts rather abruptly.

note to the zevran fan club: he does have an appearance at the end!

* * *

><p><strong>The Demon of Redcliffe<strong>

===#===

They didn't meet any other persons, alive or dead. The castle was quiet as a tomb. Bannon scouted the grand reception hall. He saw rows of guards standing stiffly at attention along the walls. Lady Isolde, a boy of about ten, and Bann Teagan were gathered at the arl's seat of power at the far end of the hall. Teagan was distracting them, apparently by dancing a jig.

The hairs on the back of Bannon's neck prickled. He figured there was no point remaining hidden. The child there must be it - the demon. He led his troops into the hall.

The guards did not so much as twitch as they passed. Some had their eyes half-closed as if in a stupor. One was clearly dead, yet still standing at his post. Many of them had soiled themselves; the hall was starting to smell like a dungeon sewer.

As they neared the dais at the end of the reception hall, Bannon turned his eyes forward. Teagan was capering about like a fool, a wooden smile plastered across his face. The boy watched with avidly gleaming eyes, while his mother stood at his shoulder, her face turned away in shame. The bann dove into a handstand and then tried to flip to his feet. His wounded leg buckled and he fell with a pained grunt. The rictus of his grin didn't falter.

"No, no, no!" the boy growled, his voice at once petulant as a child's and deep as an ancient being's. "Do it right, uncle!" The bann twitched and jerked himself upright, his limbs stiff as a badly-wrought puppet's. Blood flowed down his leg, under his boot, causing him to slip. "Why can he not do it right, Mother?" the demon-child growled.

"Please, Connor," Isolde said in a small voice. "He- he is injured. He was wounded in the battle."

"The battle is over," the boy scoffed. "He is broken!" He flipped one hand in a casual gesture, and Teagan was thrown to the steps of the dais, discarded like a rag. "What is this that approaches now?" The boy's pale eyes narrowed at the Wardens.

Bannon forced himself to keep walking steadily. The _wrongness_ emanating from this child was almost overpowering, even stronger than the Taint. _Don't show fear,_ he told himself; _and it will be fine._ He fervently hoped. He had no wish to be turned into a helpless marionette.

The demon-child glared at them. "Is this the one, Mother?" His lips curled into a snarl. "You! You broke my toys!" He jumped down the steps and circled Bannon. The elf's companions moved back instinctively. "You _cheated!_ You broke my toy soldiers!" Was that all these people were to this thing? Little wooden toys?

Bannon clenched his teeth. "Your 'toys' were trying to kill your own people!" It was an illogical argument; the people of Redcliffe didn't belong to the demon. But if it thought Isolde was its mother and Teagan its uncle, clearly it had delusions of being the heir to the arling.

"Silence! Those villagers are mine to play with as I please. I wanted glorious battle, not trickery!" The boy-demon raked him with a scathing glare. "You cheated!" Then he turned away.

Bannon shot a glance at his companions. Even Sten seemed aghast at this macabre spectacle. Alistair's face was wrinkled in a mixture of compassion and disgust.

"What is this thing, Mother?" the demon-child asked as he returned to Isolde's side. "It does not look like the others. It is not a girl, is it?"

"He's... an elf, Connor," Lady Isolde said, a tear leaking from her eye. "We have elves here in the castle; you've seen them before."

The child tilted his head. "Those elves? Elves cannot fight; they are useless!" He grinned in bloodthirsty glee. "I had their ears chopped off and fed to the dogs. They chewed for hours and hours and hours."

Bannon's vision went red. "You little son of a-!" He reached for his sword, intending murder, but Alistair grabbed his arm.

"Don't! He's just a child."

"Are you out of your mind?" Bannon screamed. He wrenched his arm free.

"Kill them!" the demon roared. The guards around the hall staggered, now driven to move, to attack.

"Connor, no!" Isolde wailed.

Teagan jerked to his feet and drew his sword. He flew at Bannon.

"Don't kill him!" Alistair yelled.

Bannon ducked under Teagan's blade, then let his legs collapse as the bann smashed into him. The shem landed on him heavily, the breath knocked out of him as the elf planted a knee in his gut. Bannon swung across with his left fist at the poor bastard's face. Teagan sprawled, dazed. Bannon shoved him off.

The guards were stiff and slow from standing locked in position for so long. "Don't kill them!" Alistair was yelling, clobbering one with the pommel of his sword. Leliana probably listened. Sten laid about with his maul as usual, and Morrigan aimed her staff at anyone who came near her, lancing them with bolts of magic.

Bannon scrambled to his feet, finally able to draw his weapons. He looked around, but the demon-child was nowhere in sight. He angrilly clubbed a guard reaching for him, using the flat of his blade.

Within moments, the guards lay sprawled everywhere, insensate or dead. Leliana and Alistair crouched over Bann Teagan, trying to revive him. Bannon rounded on Lady Isolde. "Where is the little bastard?" he growled.

Lady Isolde blanched. "He is only a little boy! He's the arl's son. You have no right to speak of him like that!"

No right? Of course, he was only a lowly elf. Good only for dogfood. Gripping his sword, he advanced on the arlessa. "He's slaughtered everyone - while you sat there and watched!"

"No!" She backed away from him, shaking in fear. "Teagan!"

Alistair and Leliana had brought the bann around and helped him to his feet. Leliana left the bann to fall against Alistair's shoulder while she hurried to keep Bannon from the arlessa. She gripped his arm. "Bannon, stop this! He is her son. Control your temper. Elves are not the only ones who have died."

Certainly not the ones who would be important to any Orlesians. Their only concern would be the mess on their rich carpets. Bannon shrugged the bard off.

Bann Teagan limped up, rubbing his head. "Warden, she's right. This is not helping matters." He softened towards Isolde. "Do you know where he's gone?"

The Lady dabbed at her face with a kerchief, trying to compose herself. "He- he ran off. Violence scares him."

"Too bad it didn't scare him when he started treating people like toy soldiers," Bannon spat. Leliana shot him a vicious glare.

"Ease up," Alistair muttered to the elven Warden. Bannon shoved his sword back into its scabbard.

Lady Isolde said, "Sometimes, he comes back to himself. He is not a monster, but there is something inside him, that makes him do these things." She twisted her kerchief into a knot. "Please, you must help him!"

"She's right," Teagan said. "When I first arrived, Connor was himself. He was so happy to see me." He looked at Alistair. "You've trained with the Templars," he said. "You must know something we can do."

Alistair looked down and said nothing.

"The Templars only know one single, heartless method of dealing with possessed mages." Morrigan's voice had lost its smooth edge. She leaned heavily on her staff again.

"Are you calling _me_ heartless?"

"You are a Templar, are you not?"

"Former-!"

Bannon cut them off. "Morrigan, do you know of another way?"

She nodded. "The demon can be defeated without harming its host. But it must be fought in the Fade. Thus, only a mage is capable of doing so."

"Are you volunteering?"

"Alas, I do not know any magic that will allow one to travel freely into the Fade." Bannon gave her a sour look. Why had she even brought it up? Morrigan lifted her chin. "But there is another mage you might ask."

The companions and bann and arlessa looked at each other a moment. "Wait," Alistair said finally. "You can't mean the Blood Mage!"

"Jowan," Lady Isolde said quickly. "He is the one I told you about," she explained to Bann Teagan. "The one who started all this. But... does he yet live?"

"No thanks to Alistair," the witch said pointedly.

"We must fetch him at once," said Teagan.

Alistair protested. "Bann Teagan, this course of action is dangerous!"

"We are all in danger. If there is a way Connor can be saved, we must take it." The bann moved to some of the guards who were knocked out in the fight. Those able to stand, he sent to fetch the prisoner.

"Sten, go with them," Bannon told the qunari. "Make sure the mage doesn't try anything." He gave the giant a pointed look. Sten nodded.

The elf turned to the others. "Leliana, Alistair; see if you can find the boy. If he's... himself, see if you can bring him back here. Or better yet, keep him calm and in control."

"We will only observe him," Leliana promised the arlessa. "Please, do you know where he went?"

"Up to his room. Or- or to see his father." The arlessa straightened her spine. "I can take you. Perhaps I can talk some sense into him."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Bannon told her. "It hasn't worked so far." The arlessa bit her lip and looked down at the kerchief she wrung in her hands, but she didn't argue. Bannon gave Alistair the same look he'd given Sten. The Templar - former Templar - didn't meet his eyes.

Bannon kept out of the way of Teagan and the rest of the guards sorting out the bodies. "Morrigan," he said softly, calling the witch as he made his way to a bench along the wall. He collapsed gratefully onto it, letting his legs sprawl. "I feel like I've been up all night, fighting," he griped. "Have a seat?"

The witch's lips twitched in amusement. She didn't refuse the offer, though. She leaned her staff against the wall and sat. It was a finely-carved bench with cushions. Clearly for shems to use. Bannon expected he was staining it with blood from his armor.

"Are you all right?" he asked Morrigan quietly.

"I am... tired," she admitted. "Perhaps it has to do with that battle last night."

Bannon smiled and nodded. Then he turned serious again. "But you're talking about fighting a demon. Or do you mean for the Blood Mage to do that?"

"It remains to be seen if he can be of any use in this matter," she pointed out. "But, the Fade is the land of Dreams. Should I go there, I will not be taking my weary physical form."

"Then... you are willing to do this." Morrigan helping someone? That seemed odd.

"Yes. Does that surprise you?"

"Frankly, yes. What happened to fools too stupid to avoid getting themselves killed, or hurt, or eaten by darkspawn, or possessed by a demon?"

She looked away, and blew out a breath between her teeth. "The way your Circle treats mages is despicable," she said bitterly. "I would not wish that on anyone. This boy is young, and... untrained. If the Chantry and the Templars had their way, he'd be dead." She waved one hand wearily. "It is a shame that someone of magical talent should be lost to a demon. That is all."

So, she had a soft spot for mages. "And if the Blood Mage can't help?"

She gnawed her lip. "Then the Templar way is our only option."

Bannon nodded. "You said using your magic too often for too long a time would... fatigue you."

"I have been conserving my energy. I will be strong enough to face a demon, if that concerns you."

"It does."

Morrigan stared at him contemplatively. Bannon didn't feel an explanation was warranted, so he just sat back and tried not to imagine what disasters would befall his companions.

===#===

Alistair and Leliana went upstairs. Alistair led them to the main wing. They found Connor's room. It had a single bed, and a miniature castle stood under the window. Toy soldiers were scattered on the floor beside it. The boy was not there, though they checked the wardrobe and other likely hiding places.

They went to the end of the hall. The door to the master chambers was open, and the inner door to Eamon's bedroom was slightly ajar. Through the gap, they could see the boy kneeling beside the bed, arms folded on the coverlet next to his father's body.

"Connor?" Leliana called hesitantly.

The boy jumped. "Wh- who's there?" He stood and flung up his arms as they came in. "Don't hurt me!"

"We're not going to hurt you," Leliana assured him.

"Connor," said Alistair; "can you tell us what happened to you?"

The boy swiped his face with one sleeve. "I... father was ill. No one could cure him. Mother says I... I'm not supposed to tell."

"It's all right," Alistair said. "We know you are a mage."

"Well... if I'm a mage, I should be able to do magic, shouldn't I?" He looked down at Eamon's still form. "I wanted to help. I... I couldn't do anything. But then _she_ came."

Alistair and Leliana exchanged worried glances.

Connor paced. "She said she could help. If- if I agreed to let her use me. She says she's keeping father alive." He stopped pacing and went to Alistair. "You mustn't stop her. Father will die!" His blue eyes pleaded tearfully.

Alistiar bit his lip. If the demon was keeping Eamon's spirit from leaving his body... that might well be the only thing keeping him alive. And if they broke this agreement between boy and demon... Alistair looked at Eamon's face. He hadn't seen the man in nearly a decade, but he was still shocked by what he saw. Eamon looked old. Old and frail. His hair had gone completely silver and was thinning. His eyes and cheeks were sunken.

Regret washed over Alistair in a wave. Eamon had never been close enough to Alistair to be like a father, more like a kindly uncle. When he'd sent Alistair away, Alistair had shunned him, refusing any contact, not even letters. That all seemed so petty, now. Eamon might die, and Alistair would never get to speak to him.

"Father is so desperately ill," Connor said, in that chilling otherworldly voice. His eyes gleamed violet. "Only I can keep him alive. Oppose me at your own peril."

Alistair cringed. It was as if the demon had read his mind. Leliana stepped halfway between them, pulling the demon-child's eyes off him. "You call this living?" the bard said harshly. "If you cannot revive him fully, he is useless to our cause."

"Fah!" the demon spat. Its sneer fell and gave way to a look of horror. "No!" the boy screamed. "You can't kill Father!" Connor threw himself over Eamon's body, as if to shield it from attack - or to keep his spirit from flying out. He sobbed.

"Connor," Leliana said firmly; "you must stay strong. Keep the demon at bay." She took the boy's hand in her own and knelt at the bedside. "I will help you guard your father." She glanced at Alistair. "We will do what we can to save him."

Alistair wasn't so sure, but he kept his thoughts to himself as he returned downstairs. All his hopes rode on Eamon taking the burden of leadership from the Grey Wardens. But he could not deny his Templar training, or his natural affinity for people. The demon had to be stopped.

He prayed he wouldn't have to slay Connor.

===#===

Someone had dug up a clean robe for the mage, but his face was still haggard, his gait that of a man fifty years his senior. They sat Jowan down on the bench and gathered in a semi-circle around him. Isolde scourged him with her tongue, blaming him for the presence of the demon. The mage quailed, still denying everything.

"Lady Isolde," Alistair said; "he's telling the truth. Connor must have been tempted by a demon in the Fade, at night in his dreams." This was how the demons influenced mankind, when their sleeping minds travelled to the Fade to dream. Ordinary people had little to fear from them, save nightmares. But mages had a special affinity with the Fade, the source of their magic. They could be 'awake' inside their dreams and consciously walk the Fade. And interact with its denizens. "Apparently, he made a deal with this demon to try to save Eamon's life."

Isolde put her face in her hands. "No," she moaned. "Connor is a good boy. He would never-."

"Let us get to the point," Morrigan said. "You, Jowan. Are you capable of magic that will allow a mage to enter the Fade and do battle with this demon?"

"I..." He blinked. "I know the spell. But it requires a vast amount of energy. No single mage can cast it by himself."

"How many mages does it take?" Alistair asked.

"A full circle of seven."

Alistair cursed underbreath. All they had were two, an apostate and a maleficar. Not even Circle mages.

Morrigan calmly asked, "And using your Blood Magic?"

"We're not even considering that," Alistair snapped.

"Yes we are," Bannon told him. "That's why he's here."

Alistair pressed his lips together. He wasn't a Templar any longer - fine - but everyone knew Blood Magic was _wrong_. Yet Bannon had told him that Wardens do whatever it takes. Whether fighting dirty or... this. He remembered Duncan saying much the same thing. Alistair just bit down on his protests. He knew they'd go unheeded, anyway.

Jowan looked morosely at each of his captors in turn. "The spell requires a great deal of blood. All of it, in fact, from one person."

"Meaning," Bann Teagan said, "someone has to die?"

"Yes."

They couldn't be considering this. Yet Bannon said, "What if several people give their blood? As much blood as one person would have?"

Jowan shook his head. "It doesn't work like that. Once the spell starts, it targets one person until it is complete. You can't just switch around at a whim."

"I will do it, then," Isolde said, straightening her spine.

Bann Teagan protested. "My Lady, you can't! You're the arlessa."

"He is my son, Teagan! If this is not done... his life is forfeit. I cannot stand by and do nothing." She put a hand on his shoulder. "You are Eamon's brother. You shall rule the arling in his name, until such time as he is well enough to do so. Or... or until Connor is of age." She wavered. "Tell Eamon I love him." She turned to the mage. "I wish to say goodbye to my son."

He nodded. "It will take me some time to prepare the spell. But I beg you, milady, do not tell him what we are about to do. The demon might try to stop us."

The lady nodded, not trusting her voice. Teagan went with her upstairs. Jowan and Morrigan moved to confer about the spell and prepare a sigil for the workings. Alistair collared Bannon and dragged him to a side hall. "You have to stop this," the Templar hissed.

"She volunteered, Alistair," the elf said harshly. "No one is forcing her against her will."

"Of course she volunteered! She feels guilty for what happened to Connor! For not sending him to the Circle, where he would have been protected!"

"Oh, she feels guilty?" Bannon narrowed his eyes. "Or _you_ feel guilty, because you hate her and want her dead?"

Alistair flinched sharply. "I- I - no!"

"You'd rather kill Connor?" the elf continued mercilessly. "A little boy? How do you think she'd feel about that? After all that effort she put into kicking you out of Redcliffe to protect him from you?"

"Stop it!" Alistair clutched his head.

"I'm sorry, Alistair, but these are our only options." Bannon sighed and rubbed his head. "This is our best chance to save the boy."

The former Templar rubbed his face. "I can't be a party to this."

Bannon exhaled slowly. "All right. Take Sten and the guards that are able, and secure the area against attack. The demon might throw more of those shambling corpses at us." The elf looked at him worriedly. "All right?"

"Yes, ser," he answered dully. It was too much to think about. Guilt gnawed at him, but what could he do? Following orders was easy enough.

===#===

They had rolled back the carpets of the antechamber, shoved the furniture against the walls. Jowan stood at the base of a circular sigil he had drawn on the floor in his own blood. To Bannon's surprise, the mage hadn't tried to bargain for his life in exchange for the boy's. He seemed resigned to whatever fate the rulers of Redcliffe decided for him. Morrigan stood across from him, the arlessa between the two mages. Bannon and Teagan would be the only witnesses.

Morrigan motioned the elf closer. "Stand by me," she asked, the imperious tone absent from her voice. Bannon nodded and took up a position nearby.

Teagan tried once more to reason with Isolde. "Please reconsider! Eamon's guard would gladly give their lives-"

"No! They would give their lives in battle. I will not ask any other to risk his immortal soul. Connor is my son. It is my mistakes that have caused all this." She forced back a sob. "I will make it right. Take care of him, Teagan." Isolde took a breath and faced the mage. "I am ready. Do it now! Do not stop, no matter what happens."

"Yes, milady. I am truly sorry." Jowan bowed his head contritely. He extended a hand towards the blood sigil and began a low incantation.

Lady Isolde dropped to her knees, praying forgiveness from the Maker. Blood ran from her eyes to start. Then her ears and nose. The mage shifted his stance, raised both arms, and cried out an arcane word of command. Isolde opened her mouth to scream, but only blood poured out. Her body went rigid, arched back like a drawn bow.

A crimson glow rose from the sigil. It lifted Isolde's body from the floor. The spell _wrung_ the blood from her, squeezing her like a wet rag, twisting her body. As blood poured down like spilled water, the red glow snaked forth and encircled Morrigan's feet. It spiralled up her legs, catching the witch in its power. She, too, went rigid, her body shaking like a tenacious autumn leaf in the wind.

There was a surge of red light, and a sound like a scream. The arlessa's crimson-soaked body plopped to the floor. Morrigan collapsed backwards. Reflexively, Bannon caught her and lowered her to the floor. He feared she was dead, but he could see the pulse beating strongly in her neck.

He held her hand between his and watched her still body as the battle with the demon raged, somewhere beyond his perception.

===#===

Zevran trudged up the dusty road. Though there was no one to see, he looked more like a cowed elven servant than when he'd arrived in Redcliffe in disguise. _Fool. Failure. You had your targets in your sights!_ He could almost physically feel his Crow Master looming at his back, the man's mountainous bulk ready to crush him. _You stupid, worthless piece of gutter puke! Weakling knife-ears! You __**failed**__!_ Failure within the Crows meant death. Either the mark killed you or... your fellow Crows did. Zevran hunched his shoulders further, but he couldn't escape the voice inside him.

_You had your prey within reach of your blade, yet you-._ He pulled his dagger out so suddenly, the voice cut off. He stared down at the honed steel, the sleek instrument of death. He held it forward, point out. He gripped it hard, so hard the muscles of his forearm stood out. His hand shook from the strain, but he couldn't turn the blade back towards himself.

_Come on,_ he cajoled. _What are you afraid of? Just bring the tip upright..._ The blade wavered and angled upward. _Put it against your neck. This is not difficult, is it? Up, up, just under your chin._ He managed a few more degrees. _Come, the fool shems do this every day to shave off their beards. Just put the blade to your throat and __**cut**__!_

With a strangled cry of frustration, Zevran quit fighting himself and let his arm fall to his side. _Zevran Arainai, Crow Assassin, dead from cutting himself shaving._ He sneered. What a stupid death. He rammed the dagger home into its sheath.

As he looked up, he startled, for a huge wall of thorns stood in the roadway, barely a few armlengths from him. "Hnh," he grunted. The magical barrier.

He shrugged and turned to the sun-warmed wall of rock at the side of the road. With another grunt, he flopped down to sit with his back against it. He pulled a small wineskin from his belt, popped the cap free, and wet his throat. He'd just have to wait until the Grey Wardens dealt with the damned Curse of Redcliffe. He didn't doubt they would succeed. The 'legendary' Grey Wardens hadn't disappointed so far.

Before he re-capped the wineskin, Zevran pulled the vial of poison from his inner pocket and emptied it into the container. He closed the cap and gently sloshed the skin around to mix the contents.

After a minute, he flipped the cap off once more and stared at the open spout. _Drinking wine is not so hard,_ he taunted himself. _Just like you did a moment ago, only don't stop until it is drained dry._ He imagined the cool liquid going down his throat.

Then the Wardens would find his body on their way by. What's that? Only some poor, pathetic farm elf, dead on the side of the road. Couldn't stand to be trapped, couldn't wait a bit longer for freedom, and offed himself, the stupid blighter.

Zevran sneered in disgust and flung the wineskin away, letting the contents spill out into the road dust. He drew up his knees and braced his elbows against them, rested his forehead on his hands to shade his eyes from the sun. All he had to do was wait for the Grey Wardens. The battle last night had given him some grand new ideas for traps. He grinned mirthlessly a moment.

Then he sighed. He hated waiting.

===#===


	10. The Ambush

The Ambush

**Content:**

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama, Action/Adventure, Humor

Language: some

Violence: yes

Nudity: no

Sex: no

Other: no

_Author's Notes:_

Finally! The event you've all been waiting for! Bannon vs Zevran! Ah... well, one of the two events you've been waiting for. ;P As for the other, that's going to take some time, so be prepared for a long, crazy ride.

Note: If you haven't been to my front page in a while, please check for a poll at the top. And vote! Thanks :)

* * *

><p><strong>The Ambush<strong>

===#===

Two days later, they were on the road again, rested up and reprovisioned. Bannon was sorry to leave the comfortable bed of his guest room, but quite glad to be missing the effort to clean up Redcliffe castle.

Morrigan had been successful in defeating the demon. She would not give them any details, which put the wind up Alistair's back. Connor was fine, though he seemed to have lost his memory of the time he had been possessed. As for his father, Eamon, he had not died when the demon was removed, but neither had he awakened from his coma.

Teagan clung to the belief that the Urn of Sacred Ashes was the only possible cure. Since the knights of Redcliffe had been decimated, the onus of this quest had been pressed onto the Grey Wardens. The notes Ser Bryant had passed on gave them a few leads, either in Laketown by the Circle Tower, or in Denerim itself.

The Blood Mage, Jowan, had been granted a stay of execution. He'd been returned to the dungeon to await Eamon's judgement, should the arl ever awakened. If he died, so would Jowan.

The blacksmith's daughter, along with all the other servants of the castle, had been killed. Owen went on a bender and nearly tore down the forge. The town was currently looking for a new blacksmith.

Bannon avoided the boy, Connor. He still had a knee-jerk reaction of wanting to kill him on sight. The fact that there weren't any elven women in the castle chafed him; he could certainly have used the comfort of an elven lass in his big guest bed. It would have been mutually comforting! As it was, he volunteered to let Sten sleep on the floor in his room, leaving Alistair free to look up any of his old girlfriends. Or hell, a new one, if what he'd said about the dogs were true... That would be awkward. Bannon hoped Alistair had some luck there, but the former Templar was so moody and morose, the elf doubted anything had actually happened.

At least Teagan never mentioned the royal bastard bit. Alistair seemed almost relieved to be leaving his home town. Bannon didn't get a chance to talk to him. Alistair strode eagerly forward, taking the vanguard with Sten. So the elf hung back with Morrigan. The witch seemed more introspective after her battle with the demon. Bannon wanted to make sure she was all right, still dedicated to the Grey Wardens' cause.

Leliana trailed behind, also uncharacteristically quiet. Something had been bothering her since Redcliffe as well. Bannon made note to put Alistair onto that. They were both Chantry-trained, they ought to get along well.

===#===

Four crows sat in the old dead tree overlooking the mercenary camp. Zevran enticed a few closer to the wagons with scraps of spoiled food. Hannah wrinkled her nose. "What's with the birds?"

"Pretentiousness."

One of Zevran's partners, Taleisen, had always liked to lure crows to an ambush site. He claimed it gave the target a feeling of dread forboding, a mark of doom that guaranteed their failure to defend themselves. Zevran thought it was ridiculous - weren't ambushes _supposed_ to be a complete surprise? Besides, crows were so common, he doubted the marks ever noticed their presence, let alone realized the dread they were supposed to feel before their last moments of life. Taliesin was like that, though; full of drama and poetics. Zevran did it on a whim, since Taliesin wasn't here. He'd offered to come, but Zevran had turned down the help. The last job they had done together... had gone badly. It wasn't Taliesin's fault, of course, but Zevran wanted to face this challenge alone. He had some things to work out for himself. Some bad luck to shake off his boots, as it were.

Quinn, the scout, came pounding up the road, scattering the crows. "A qunari, a knight, an elf, a barbarian woman, and a Chantry Sister-" he reported in one quick breath. It sounded like the start of a convoluted joke.

"The Wardens?" Hannah asked Zevran.

"Either that, or a very unlucky circus troupe," he quipped with a grin. "Get ready!" He ordered. "Man the tree - do not drop it until we can separate the Wardens from their allies," he told Quinn. The mercenaries scrambled into position, drawing the oxcarts across the road and felling the beasts in their traces.

"Go get them," Zevran told Hannah with a wink.

===#===

"Help! Please, come quickly!" A farmwife ran down the road and nearly ran into Alistair. She caught him by the hands. "There's been an attack!"

"Wh-?" was all he had time for before she ran back the other way.

Sten growled, "Another delay?" But the human Warden was already chasing the woman.

Bannon and Morrigan caught up with the qunari. "Brilliant," Morrigan sneered. "It's as though they wait for us to show up before having their disasters."

"Come on, before Alistair gets himself into too much trouble." The elf led his troops in a ragged charge down the road. It couldn't be darkspawn; he didn't sense any nearby.

They came around a bend to behold a sight of slaughter and chaos. But no attackers. Bannon skidded to a halt, Morrigan beside him. Sten continued until he drew abreast of Alistair, who had stopped near the first wagon.

The only person who might be an attacker was an elf in leather armor, armed with swords and bow. The distraught farm woman ran right up to him, then stopped and gave him a nod. Completely unlike enemies.

The elf gave a sharp whistle and raised one fist. Bannon saw several armed men step out from behind the wagons. Even more broke cover on the hills on either side of the road, bringing crossbows to bear. _Shit! A trap!_ Retreat would be really smart right about now!

He opened his mouth to yell at Alistair to _run_, but a loud groan drowned him out. An old dead tree heeled over and was falling on him. He dove forward, Morrigan leaping ahead of him. Leliana cried out as the tree crashed to the ground, sealing off this end of the trap. Fortunately, she sounded more fearful than hurt.

Bannon scrambled to his feet, drawing his weapons. Morrigan started a spell. That blond elf pulled a large bow from his back. "Resist if it makes you feel better!" he sneered. "The Grey Wardens die here!" Silver-blue light flared from the woman's hands - she was a mage! The battle was swiftly joined.

Alistair cried out as blue mage-light encircled his feet, pinning him in place. He managed to get his shield up in time to catch a yard-long arrow on it. He pulled out his sword and waited, head ducked down.

Sten charged forward with a roar. Crossbow bolts chewed into the ground behind him as the archers concentrated most of their fire on him. He met the mercenaries with a clash of metal and human cries.

A smaller volley of bolts bounced off the air around Morrigan. "Stay behind me if you wish to remain safe," she suggested to Bannon. She raised one hand and called down lightning to her fist. She then aimed it at the nearest row of crossbowmen.

Bannon didn't heed her advice. Ducking low, he raced to help the beleaguered qunari and trapped Warden. One of the mercenaries was angling for Alistair's blind side, behind his guard. Bannon plowed into the man and threw him to the dirt, then thrust a sword through his ribs.

"Morrigan," Alistair yelled. "The mage!"

Bolts of magic and lightning flashed through the melee as the two apostates fought.

Behind the hulk of the felled tree, Leliana cursed in a most un-Chantry-like manner and bent to rip her new robe up the sides. Vowing never to wear her robes on the road again, she clambered up the tree trunk and perched by a shielding root. She drew her crossbow and began sniping the enemies on the ridges.

Bannon ducked instinctively, and something sheared through his hair, making him flinch aside. Where were those damned arrows coming from? He blocked a mace with his sword and drove his short blade through the bicep of the arm holding it. He cast a glance across the battlefield, towards the mercenary elf and his mage. That elf had the bow; he was drawing another arrow.

Their eyes met.

===#===

Their eyes met across the battlefield, deep brown and honey-amber. Zevran saw the flash of anger, the instinct of a killer. He knew in an instant that the other elf was coming for him, figuring to cut off the head of this mercenary snake, to remove the biggest threat.

Zevran released the arrow, but the Warden was gone before it landed. He disappeared behind the mercenaries as he circled to get to Zevran. He didn't waste any opportunity as he passed. He hamstrung one of the fighters. He ran past another, completely ignoring the man's challenging stance, then turned and swiped a blade through his neck, almost as an afterthought.

"He's mine!" Zevran snapped to Hannah as he threw down the bow. He pulled out his swords and sprang forward, right into the charge of the Warden. The two elves impacted heavily, blade to blade, body to body. They staggered back a half step, caught their balance, then moved into a swift dance, exchanging fast and vicious blows.

Zevran bared his teeth in a grin; he felt the excitement of bloodlust straight down to his groin. The dark-haired elf merely snarled, intent on killing him. Zevran had the advantage of two long blades, whereas his opponent had one long and one short. A glimmer of disappointment cut through the thrill of the fight. This elf was clearly nowhere near as well-trained as a Crow assassin. Zevran was going to beat him.

Oh, but it wasn't going to be _easy_. The elf was quick - Zevran trapped his short blade between his swords and circled to wrench it out of his hand. But the Warden somehow snaked his blade straight back, twisting with the maneuver instead of fighting it. Then he struck forward, slicing Zevran's forearm between the bracer and elbow guard.

And he was strong - fearlessly, the Warden followed up with an attack. It had no finesse, no technique, but raw as it was, Zevran couldn't predict it, and he found himself giving ground, trying to find an opportunity to turn the tables. Bursts of magelight flared around them as the main battle raged on. The quartet of blades burned crescent streaks into the air, yet neither elf dared to blink.

_And_ - Zevran barely turned his hip in time to deflect a vicious kick - he fought dirty. The force of it knocked Zevran sprawling, and he twisted like an eel to avoid the Warden's stabbing blade. He cut upward, more a desperate delaying tactic than an actual attack. The Warden avoided his swords and cut at his legs. Zevran scrambled backwards, the relentless elf following, determined to slice him open anywhere he could reach.

Zevran feinted and rolled, got his feet under him, and flung a handful of loose grit at the Warden's face. The Warden threw up his left arm and turned his head away, squinching his eyes shut. Zevran followed up with an hard downward cut that laid the Warden's bicep open. He cried out in pain and rage, and attacked. Zevran hadn't managed to blind him with the dirt; he'd been too quick to react.

Zevran exploited an opening in the elf's guard, left by his wounded arm. The assassin cut hard across the Warden's chest. Somehow, he managed to catch the blade on his long dagger and deflect it upwards. He flinched because the sword nearly went into his neck, instead. The Warden threw his head back and the blade only skidded against his jawbone.

Zevran's grin widened, his bloodlust enflamed as he struck his opponent. He pressed the attack, aiming at the extremities, to hurt, to cripple, not to kill. To draw the duel out. The Warden stumbled back clumsily, drawing the killer on. Incensed, Zevran lunged, overextended. The Warden dropped entirely under his guard and thrust his sword into Zevran's thigh. "_Ah!_"

The assassin struck down instinctively, but the Warden spun aside in a move that left his back completely open and unprotected. He'd actually disengaged and was aiming a strike at the mage's neck. Did he think the pain lancing Zevran's thigh would incapacitate him? With an angry snarl, Zevran turned and lunged to drive both blades into the elf's back.

But at that moment, there was a world-shattering _CRACK!_ Pain flashed red across Zevran's eyes, then there was only blackness. It was the last thing Zevran knew. He didn't even feel his body hit the ground.

===#===

The mage's eyes flew wide as Bannon turned and thrust his sword into her neck. Just behind him, Alistair finished off the elf who was the apparent leader of these people. Both bodies collapsed lifelessly at nearly the same time. Bannon shot Alistair a grateful look, but they didn't have time for more. Something, somewhere, was exploding, and one very angry qunari was screaming imprecations in his foreign tongue.

Ignoring the few scattered crossbow bolts that peppered the ground, the Wardens charged up the hill after Sten.

"Not that way!" the witch started. "It's full of-! Oh well."

Alistair tripped on a wire and went sprawling, which was lucky, as the explosion belched fire and debris over his back.

"Traps!" Bannon yelled.

"You think?"

Bannon turned back to the witch. "Get those bastards on the other ridge!" They couldn't let any of them escape!

===#===

Once the heart of the assault had been cut down, it was just a matter of cleaning up the remaining skirmishers and crossbowmen. It was one hell of a mess. Bannon was covered in blood, at least half of it his own. Whoever that elf was, he had been damned good. The others, save for Leliana, were in worse shape. She and Alistair knelt over the qunari, trying to pull bolts out of his neck without killing him.

Bannon passed Morrigan a healing potion, then set about binding up his arm.

"Well, these didn't last long," the witch quipped as she downed the potion with a grimace. Despite having restocked at Redcliffe's Chantry, they were left with barely a handful after this fight. "I would dearly love to thank whoever set these mercenaries on us," she continued scathingly. "Too bad we killed them all, or we might have gotten some satisfaction extracting the information."

"Does it matter? It was probably Loghain." Bannon got up and moved stiffly down the hill to check the corpses. The thief from Denerim started pocketing little prizes he found.

"Hey," he called back to the witch a few minutes later. "Bring some rope, I think you just got your wish."

===#===

Some pitiful fool was moaning in pain. From a distant shore, an angelic voice said, "I think he's waking up." And then Zevran realized the pitiful fool was in fact himself. How embarrassing.

He blinked his eyes a few times. When they were open, he saw a bleary mass of brown and red. When they were closed, he could see a bright red crack on a black field. It must be the crack in his skull, he reasoned.

He blinked some more and tried to rub his eyes, which is when he discovered his hands were bound behind his back. Further investigation revealed he was lying on the ground, a bandage around his leg. Pain throbbing through his body helped him recall that vicious fight with the elven Warden.

"Here," the angelic voice said softly, and something cool and soothing touched Zevran's eyes. Then he could see that red-headed Chantry Sister crouched over him, wiping his bloody face with a damp cloth.

"That's enough," someone else said. The red-haired angel stood and moved back. The others were there, gathered around him - the barbarian and the two Wardens.

Zevran rolled halfway towards them so he could lift his head to look at them. He groaned again. "I'm not dead?" he said stupidly. Head injuries were no fun.

"A condition that can soon be remedied," the cold-voiced barbarian told him pointedly.

"First," the dark-haired elf said, "we want to ask you a few questions."

"Aha," Zevran said. "An interrogation, then? Very well, let me save you some time and effort. I am Zevran Arainai of the Antivan Crows. Zev to my friends." He frowned to himself. "Not that I have any friends." Where had that come from? "Sorry. Head injury, you know."

"Why are you trying to kill us?" the elf asked.

"Is my job." Zevran shrugged, or tried to. It wasn't so easy while lying down on one side with your hands tied behind your back. "I am with the Antivan Crows, as I believe I mentioned." The Fereldens looked more blank than impressed.

"An assassin?" the human man asked.

The Sister clarified. "The Antivan Crows are a powerful guild of assassins. They are reputed to be the most deadly and most efficient killers. They never fail to kill their mark, once they accept a contract." Ah, at last, an enlightened person!

"Well, they can't say that any more," the barbarian sniffed.

"Who hired you?" the knight asked.

"Eh, a rat-faced fellow in the capitol. Howe, his name is. On behalf of that taciturn Regent, General of the blah blah blah."

"Loghain!" the knight spit with vehemence.

"Oh, there's a big surprise!" the elf said in sarcastic shock. "That's an incredible- I think I'm gonna have a heart attack and _die_ from that surprise!" The Wardens shared a flat look.

Zevran snorted, and instantly wished he hadn't, as that red lightning fork flashed before his eyes again.

The elven Warden looked down on him. "Why are you just giving us all this information?" He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Zevran was beginning to like him; so smart, so ruthless, so handsome. And such gorgeous eyes!

"Oh," Zevran said, remembering the question. "Why not? I was not paid for my silence, after all. Not that I offered it."

"How much did they pay you? And where's the money now?"

"The contract on your lives went for an exorbitant sum. As for the money, it is on its way to Antiva, to my Crow Masters. I, myself, will only see a paltry share of the take, should I be successful." He blinked. Things worked a little more slowly in his rattled brain. "Which I clearly have not been. Therefore, death shall be my only payment." For some reason, this saddened him. After a lifetime spent clinging to life like a drowning man on a small plank in the ocean after a shipwreck, he found he couldn't truly let go. Since he had first clashed with the elven Warden, he'd been fighting to live. It was ironic. "If you are done questioning me, I would like to offer you a proposal."

The small group looked at each other. The barbarian spoke. "His exceedingly limited usefulness is at an end. Finish him off and be done with it." She turned and stalked off, clearly dismissing him.

Zevran's heart pounded. The others didn't appear inclined to hear him out. He didn't wait for an invitation. "Listen, since I have failed to kill you, the Crows will now seek my death. That puts us in the same boat, no? It occurs to me that the only way to be safe from the Crows is to join with someone stronger than they are - which you have quite adequately proved to be."

"You want us to protect you," the elf stated; "from your current - soon to be former - employers."

"_Si!_ I can be of great use," Zevran added quickly. What did he have to offer them? "I am well-versed in poisons, stealth, and lock-picking, traps, spying... I can warn you should the Crows try other, more sophisticated means of killing you, now that my efforts have failed." _Pitiful fool!_ He'd just admitted failure, three times in as many minutes. It should have stung more, but the pain in his head seemed to drown that out. Zevran squirmed a bit, wishing he could use his hands, or at least stand upright and talk. "I know twelve massage techniques, six different card games, and a great many jokes - most of them dirty. I would be great fun at parties, no?"

"You've got to be joking," the human said.

"You see how amusing I can be!" Zevran stressed. "I am an expert swordsman, as you can attest." He nodded to the elf. "I am sure you can use such skills, to fight darkspawn and other unsavory creatures."

"How do we know you won't just stab us in the back as soon as we untie you?" the elven Warden asked.

"Uh..." Zevran's mouth went dry. "You don't, really," he admitted. "I can only pledge my loyalty to you."

"The same loyalty you gave to these Crows?"

"Well, it's not like I had a choice with them. They bought me on the slave market when I was young."

"You're a slave?"

Ah, of course! Fereldens had a notorious distaste for slavery. "Yes," Zevran said. "A well-paid and pampered slave; a very deadly and dangerous one to be sure, but a slave nonetheless." Was that just desperate, wishful thinking, or did the elf's demeanor soften? "My pledge to you would be that of a free man, not the forced loyalty of a slave." Zevran blinked. Blood was running into his left eye again.

"You must think we're royally stupid," the human scoffed.

"I think you're royally tough to kill," Zevran corrected. "I'm only hoping for the stupid part." He blinked again. Oh shit, what did he just say? "Uh, did I say that out loud? Sorry, head injury..." He started to shake his head to clear it, then realized what a horribly bad idea that would be. "What I meant to say was..." He tried to salvage his chances, looking up into the dark-haired elf's gorgeous eyes. "I think you are the sort of person who does not fear to take risks, when the reward can be so great."

He hoped that sounded tempting enough. His only other resorts were offering sexual favors and plain outright begging. Not that he'd ever stoop to the latter! He looked imploringly up at the elf. The Sister and the knight looked to him as well. He seemed to be the one holding Zevran's life in his hands. He stroked his chin in thought.

===#===

He stroked his chin in thought, and his fingers brushed the ridge along his jaw where the healing potions had gone to work on the cut. _He almost took my head off,_ Bannon mused. For some reason, this elf tugged at him. He surely wouldn't mind his own personal assassin! But that was nonsense. The man was paid to kill them, contracted to kill them. This was no doubt a ploy to finish the job and collect the reward.

Still... If it were true about him being a slave... Fereldens despised slavery. Bannon despised elves being relegated to servants and slaves even more. And hell, truth be told, he was getting tired of being the only elf among these shems. It would be a relief to be able to talk to one of his own kind.

In the end, the captive's last argument decided it for him. "Give him a healing potion," Bannon said. Leliana nodded and took one from her pack.

"What?" Alistair yelped. "We're taking the assassin with us now?"

"Mercy is a virtue in the eyes of the Maker," Leliana said. "So long as one is careful, yes?" This last remark was aimed sharply at Bannon.

He looked at Alistair. "Look, you want to kill him? Here." He pulled out his new belt knife, flipped it hilt-out, and offered it to the Templar.

"Uh..." Alistair backed up a bit. "Well, no. Just..." He slumped in defeat, then looked heavenward. "If there were a big sign saying 'We Are Desperate,' I think it just knocked on our door."

Morrigan tromped back over. "Tell me I am not hearing this! You cannot be serious!"

Bannon re-sheathed his knife, not about to tempt the witch with it. "I'll handle it. Don't worry."

She flung up her hands. "_No_ sense of self preservation whatsoever!" She stalked off once more. "Don't expect me to help you! But I do suggest you thoroughly inspect everything you eat or drink from now on."

"Sound advice for anyone," the assassin - Zevran - quipped cheerfully. He seemed in much better spirits now that he'd had a healing draught. And wasn't in imminent danger of being executed. Bannon recalled feeling much the same when Duncan had plucked him from the clutches of the Denerim city guard. Except for losing Soris to them at the same time, and being forced into the Grey Wardens, that is.

"Leave it," he told Leliana, as she leaned to untie the prisoner.

She looked to him and nodded. "I must check on Sten." She rose and returned to where the qunari lay.

Bannon settled down next to the prone assassin and started rifling his belt pouches. He pulled out something that looked like metal tongs with stone tips. "What's this?"

"My fire-striker."

Bannon squeezed the metal arms rapidly, making the flint and steel strike sparks. "Nice!" He put it in his own belt.

"That is mine."

"Not any more."

"Aren't you going to untie me?"

"Not just yet."

Vials of - these must be poison, throwing knives, a wire garrote, a set of simple lockpicks, and other miscellaneous mundane items were in the belt and its pouches. And a lovely, razor-honed belt knife.

"Those are mine," the assassin insisted.

"Not any more." Bannon tried not to smirk, and the assassin bit his tongue. The thief unbuckled the weapon harness, and retrieved the two swords. He wiped them with a rag before sheathing them. "These are really nice."

"Those are mine."

This time, Bannon did smirk. "Not any more."

Zevran growled. "What are you, just going to tie me up and rob me?"

"Is my job," Bannon shot back, imitating the Antivan's accent.

Zevran only growled again. "I will need those back, if you intend me to fight for you."

"First, we need to make sure you're sincere about not killing us." Bannon leaned down and untied the ropes. "After that, we can get to the 'you helping us' part."

The assassin grumbled as he loosed the rope from his arms. Bannon gave him a hand up, noticing what a strong grip he had. He didn't let go of the Denerim elf's arm right away. "You have spared my life," he said, looking Bannon in the eye. "I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you, until I am killed or you choose to release me from it. From now on, I am your man, without reservation. This, I swear." With that, he released Bannon's arm and bowed, his fist over his heart.

Bannon just stared. This guy had to be joking. "All right," he agreed hesitantly.

Zevran grinned. "What is your name, my noble _patrone_?"

"Bannon. That's Alistair," the elf said, nodding in the human's direction.

"Oh, that's brilliant," Morrigan griped. "Be sure to point out his targets to him."

Bannon rolled his eyes after the witch turned away. "That's Morrigan," he said. "Don't mess with her, she's an evil witch."

"Seriously?"

"Definitely!" Bannon lowered his voice and looked around to make sure no one else was within earshot. "Leliana is our lunatic nun, and Sten is the giant."

The assassin had a bemused, crook-browed look on his face. Bannon chuckled. "Yeah, you'll fit right in."

===#===

Leliana told Bannon he needed to speak to Sten, so he left her and Morrigan with the assassin for a while. He instructed them to plunder their attackers for food, money, and any healing potions. Zevran should know where those were, and if he tried anything, Morrigan would surely set his head on fire.

The qunari was lying on his back where Leliana and Alistair had left him. The dirt around his head was damp and sticky with blood. Bannon crouched next to him. There was more blood drying on his neck, jaw, and chest. As Bannon understood it, Alistair had had to pull quarrels from the giant's neck, and then Leliana had to pour potions down his throat before he bled out. Even if they'd done it perfectly, he would need more rest to fully recover his strength.

"How are you feeling, Sten?"

"I should have died."

"You know we'll take care of you. Le-"

"No. They should have let me die. I was meant to die in battle, do you not recall?"

Bannon sat back on his heels. Just what he needed, a suicidally depressed qunari. "I thought we agreed that you should die fighting darkspawn. Not a bunch of hired assassins."

"What difference does it make?"

"Come on, you've fought a few darkspawn. But not many. We've had our hands full with bandits and phantoms, humans and skeletons. All right, today you just saved the last Grey Wardens from being assassinated. But how many darkspawn can Alistair and I kill on our own?" The elf let him mull that over a bit. "Not as many as we can with you helping us."

Sten only sighed with a grumble.

Bannon stood up. "All right. But if you stay there, you won't die in any battle. Just from starvation." He turned and walked away. "Or maybe it will rain, and you'll drown, like a goose."

There was a deep, rumbling growl behind him, and he actually felt the vibrations through the ground as the qunari shifted his great bulk upright. He didn't dare turn around. If he looked weak or afraid, he feared the qunari would crush him on the spot. Instead, he looked at Alistair, a few feet away. The Templar was frozen in place, his eyes wide and staring behind Bannon. But his expression didn't change into a wince, or perhaps a bit of rage at this giant attacking his best friend. Hopefully he wasn't just slow.

As calmly as he could, Bannon walked over to the other Warden. "We just about ready to go?" he asked in the most off-hand manner he could muster. He didn't feel his skull being crushed, so he figured Sten was back to his usual cheerful self.

"Uh... sure."

===#===

Did the Warden just call the towering qunari a goose? Zevran looked over. Elves weren't all that tall to begin with, and compared to a qunari standing on a hill above him? Bannon looked like a child. The qunari hefted his maul, the weapon shaft nearly as tall as the elf and the head weighing probably as much. Bannon didn't turn or bat an eyelash. Sweet Andraste, he had some stones! Zevran shivered in admiration. The giant only shouldered the weapon.

"Are you all right?" the sweet Chantry Sister asked him.

Zevran smiled at her. "Yes, my dear. Though your illustrious leader gave me quite a vigorous workout..." His eyes wandered in that direction again, but he quickly brought them back to focus. "But the potion you gave me has done wonders for my head. And such a thorough job you did bandaging my leg." He stepped a bit closer, his seductive smile widening. "'Twas you who ministered to me so lovingly, yes?"

"Um, yes." She looked so much prettier with a little colour in her cheeks.

"You are truly an angel of mercy!" He bowed, sweeping her hand to his lips before she could escape. "Your hair is like a fiery sunset. Your eyes are like the sea after a storm. Your lips are like a red, red rose. Your breasts-"

"_Thank_ you, Zevran." She pulled her fingers from his grasp. "I get the idea."

Undaunted, he grinned toothily. "Should there be anything I can do for you, to repay your kind services," he waggled his brow suggestively; "do let me know."

"Actually," she said, making his ears perk; "there is."

"Name it, my angel of mercy!"

"Since you don't have your own pack, you can carry mine." She unslung her pack and dumped it into his arms. It was compact, but decidedly heavy.

Zevran bolstered his wavering smile. "Of course! It is my honor." He shouldered into the straps.

The evil witch, having been a silent observer of the entire exchange said, "You can carry mine as well." Before Zevran could even form a protest, she slung it at him.

"Ah. Well. Of course." He juggled the burden. "When we stop for the night, perhaps you ladies would care for an Antivan massage, no?"

"No," was the unanimous reply.

Zevran sighed and turned his wandering eye back to the elf, qunari, and human. "Perhaps one of our handsome Wardens would like to indulge in such pleasures that I can offer."

The two women shared a brow-raised look. Narrowing her eyes shrewdly, Morrigan said, "Handsome in _that_ way?" She shot another glance to Leliana, as if to confirm what she was hearing.

"Mmm, just so." Zevran blinked and took hold of himself. "Oh, but of course, I do not wish to step on any toes... If you ladies have staked your claim-"

"No," said Leliana quickly.

"Not a chance," the witch agreed, with a slight sneer of distaste.

Interesting. Zevran wondered what they had been doing in that cozy little inn, then. Actually sleeping? What a waste of a perfectly good nap.

They rejoined the rest of the group. Bannon was checking if everyone were ready to move out. He spared and extra glance at the packs Zevran was laden with. "Where did you get all that?"

"I am being eminently useful to your little troupe! Since I am unable to fight by your side, I have instead become your beast of burden. Though if I am attacked, I'm sure I can sling this effectively at an enemy." He let loose his hold of the witch's pack, catching it by the straps and preparing to fling it around in demonstration. Ah, something decidedly glass-like clinked within.

"Give me that!" Morrigan snatched it from his hands.

"Ah well," Zevran said in mock dejection. "Defenseless again. But do not fear! I am still dedicated to serving your every desire." He leered at the handsome elf.

"Oh." Bannon looked around, a bit confused. Zevran sighed inwardly as the leer went right over his head. "All right. Let's get going."

===#===

"So, Alistair," Zevran asked a while later, to lighten the boredom of hiking. "How is it you became a Grey Warden?"

"Oh. Well, I was in training to be a Templar," the human said affably enough. His earlier mistrust seemed to have nearly evaporated. "I wasn't exactly cut out to be a Templar..."

"Ah, handy with the ladies, were you? Rambunctious? A wild, tavern-haunting-"

"No! No, no, not at all," Alistair stuttered. "I mean... I had a sense of humor." Zevran chuckled. "Right, not exactly the 'sterner stuff' of which Templars are supposed to be made." The human stared down the path a while. "Anyway, a man named Duncan recruited me." His face turned melancholy. "The Grey Wardens just sounded... I don't know. Fighting a Blight seemed more worthwhile than herding mages, I guess."

"Interesting," Zevran said. Then he turned his head to the elf beside him. "How about you?"

"Duncan recruited me, too," Bannon said. "From the alienage in Denerim."

"Oh, really? How did he find you there?"

"Eh... I'll tell you later," the elf hedged.

Oh ho! Very interesting, that. Zevran skipped ahead a few steps and raised his voice slightly to the women in front of them. "So, Morrigan. How did you come to be in the Wardens' esteemed company?"

"I'm sure that is none of your business, assassin." Bannon wasn't kidding; she sure did her best to live up to the 'evil witch' role.

"There is no need to be like that," he said lightly. "It wasn't like I asked your every weakness, or what favorite drinks you might like to indulge in, that I might poison."

"Zevran," Bannon said warningly. "Remember what I said about annoying Morrigan."

He signed and gave up. For the moment. "What about you, my fiery angel of mercy? Do you fear to reveal yourself to my dastardly wiles? Will you not tell me a simple story of how you came to join this merry band?"

"The Maker told me to."

Zevran shot Bannon a look. The dark-haired elf rolled his eyes and shrugged. What had he called Leliana? Ah right, the 'lunatic nun.'

Leliana continued her tale, oblivious to the byplay. "I had a dream, a vision sent by the Maker, of a vast darkness devouring the land. Then the Maker told me I could help prevent this terrible fate, if I went to Lothering and joined the cause of the Grey Wardens."

"I see... Do you have these conversations with the Maker often?"

She shot him a look over her shoulder. "I had a vision, not a conversation. Are you trying to imply that I'm crazy?"

"Me? No! Why would I do such a thing?" he asked. "I am sure that not everyone who hears the Maker speaking to them is insane."

"I am not-!" Leliana nearly bit her tongue cutting herself off so abruptly. "We are not speaking of this." She lengthened her stride.

Zevran dropped back with Alistair and Bannon again. "Should I go ask your qunari how he joined?"

"No," the two Wardens answered together in the same deadpan voice. Then they started cracking up. Zevran just watched, bemused.

Then Alistair said, "Why don't you tell us how you joined the Crows?"

Zevran smiled, himself being his favorite subject. "Well, as I mentioned, they bought me when I was a child. They paid an exorbitant sum for me, so I am told. Of course, I became the best assassin the Crows ever had - quite a return on their investment."

"You sound rather proud of it," Alistair said hesitantly.

"Should I not be?"

"You, like... murdered people for a living!"

Zevran shrugged. "If one is going to do something, one should do one's best at it, no? It's not like I was given a choice on the matter of how I was employed."

The Wardens shared a look.

"Yes," Zevran said. "Now that I am employed by you, you shall have the benefit of my utmost talents."

"And you don't want to kill us?" Alistair asked dubiously.

"Why should I?"

Bannon said, "Guild loyalty? Revenge for nearly killing you? Being bound by a contract?"

"Pfeh." Zevran waved a hand carelessly. "The Crows will deal with their contract - I am well rid of them. As for loyalty? They now wish me to die for my failure. I can be a very loyal person, but I do draw the line there! If you are expecting to execute me for failing any task you set to me, then you can also expect for me to escape from you as well."

"What about revenge?" Alistair asked.

Zevran shrugged. "It would be stupid, no? Why would I harm the very royally tough to kill bastards who are now my allies? Powerful ones at that. No, it would be foolish to go against you, as I have learned."

"You really have absolutely no personal interest in killing us?" the former Templar insisted. "Even after we killed all your friends back there?"

"Oh, them?" The assassin waved that off. "Those were just a bunch of mercenaries."

"They weren't Antivan Crows?" Bannon asked.

"No, I am the only Crow who took this job. Actually, I think I am the only one who even bid on it. Even in Antiva, there is an age-old respect for Grey Wardens."

"Why _did_ you take this job?" asked Bannon.

"Oh, well..." Zevran shrugged. "It is difficult being the best assassin there ever was. I already have so many princes and princesses to my name, where could I go for a challenge, hm? Only if a contract came in for the very King of Antiva himself. So, I thought to myself, a contract for some Grey Wardens, in some foreign country, that would be a challenge worthy of my skills, no?"

Alistair said, "Yeah, but we beat you."

"Just so," the elf replied, undaunted. "A challenge _more_ than worthy of my skills. And now, I join your distinguished company."

Morrigan put in, "If you're the only Crow who took this job, it seems to me that killing you will remove the one and only threat."

"No, they will still send others, eventually," he pointed out pragmatically. "After all, the Crow Masters would not want to return all that money! We have a reputation to maintain. Once a contract is signed, the mark always dies. No exceptions."

"Then when can we expect your Crow friends to show up?" Alistair asked.

"Oh, assassins don't really have friends," Zevran replied matter-of-factly. "We are always competing, pitted against each other since we were young. It weeds out the weaker ones."

Alistair slowed and turned his head back to look at the elf. "You've never had any friends?" His foot hit an exposed root and he had to turn back around to pick his way up a slight rise.

Zevran shrugged. "Not really, no. There have been a few I have associated with - worked with, did a few jobs together. But such attachments are discouraged." His mouth turned down in a bitter frown.

Leliana had apparently not moved out of conversation range. She said, "That sounds horrid. What a terrible thing to do to a child. To anyone."

"Oh, to be sure, it is ruthless and cruel," he replied cheerfully. "But that is how the Crows hone their skills. Competition keeps us on our toes- WAUGH!" Suddenly, the Antivan pitched forward on the path, his cry startling and scattering his companions. Zevran caught himself, barely, on his hands and one knee, then instantly pushed off to spring back to his feet. He whirled on Bannon. "What is the meaning of this, ser?" He demanded angrily. "Did you trip me?"

The Denerim elf only burst out laughing, nearly doubling over in mirth. The assassin's amber eyes flashed in anger, and he sprang at the other elf. Bannon could hardly defend himself, because he was still laughing. Zevran began pummeling him.

"Hey, hey!" Alistair moved forward, but he hesitated to try to grab the assassin. Sten had no such compunction and drew his great maul as he strode towards the two combatants. Alistair turned to the qunari. "Whoa!" He held out his hands placatingly.

Leliana watched in partial amusement and partial ire. Morrigan just rolled her eyes and continued down the path.

Zevran backed off, sensing a large no-nonsense warrior threateningly close.

"I'm sorry," Bannon said, still trying to control his laughter. He held up his hands. "I'm sorry," he chuckled. "But I couldn't resist. 'It keeps us on our toes'- whoop!" With one hand, he pantomimed Zevran's faceplant. Leliana covered her mouth, but her eyes danced with mirth.

The assassin growled, then lashed out one last time, punching Bannon hard on the arm.

"Ow!" That cut off his laugh right there! Then he thrust a finger at the Antivan's face. "Admit it," he said while Alistair coaxed Sten to put away his weapon. "That was funny!"

The qunari muttered something under his breath and turned to follow the witch. Zevran bit hard on the inside of his cheek, not sure himself if it were in anger or just to keep from laughing. Then he huffed a breath.

"Great," he said, his ire intensifying his accent, making the vowels more breathy and the consonants softer. "Just what I always wanted: a patron with a sense of humor!"

===#===

* * *

><p><em>End Notes:<em>

Morrigan: "Brilliant! It's as though they wait for us to show up before having their disasters."  
>-she hit the nail on the head, there! :X<p>

Zevran/Bannon: "Is my job."  
>-this is barely recognizable, but go ahead and give yourself 5,000 Bloodsoing Points if you recognize this as something don karnage says in <em>TaleSpin<em>, after baloo accuses him of taking every opportunity to lie, cheat, steal, etc. (no clue what ep! maybe the glue one.)

Bannon: Oh, there's a big surprise! That's an incredible- I think I'm gonna have a heart attack and _die_ from that surprise!"  
>-this quote is worth 1,000 Bloodsoing Points if you know where it comes from. my favorite character from <em>Aladdin<em>, iago! the only smart one in the bunch :X

Zevran: "Yes, my dear. Though your illustrious leader gave me quite a vigorous workout..."  
>-yes, just like in <em>The Mark of Zorro<em>. um, no wait. nothing like that at all :X oh, no... yeah, it was a duel. close enough! no, no points for that, that one was obvious :P


	11. Zevran's First Night

Zevran's First Night

**Content:**

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Humor, Drama

Language: some

Violence: mild

Nudity: shirtless elves (m)

Sex: some innuendoes

Other: no

_Author's Notes:_

The next few parts are going to be less story/plot development and more character development. Less action, more talk, while Zevran settles in.

Extra proofreading by spellcheck dot net.

* * *

><p><strong>Zevran's First Night<strong>

===#===

It was getting a bit late to be looking for a good campsite, but the Wardens and the witch insisted in pressing on. It was a bit later Zevran found out they had but paltry camping gear, and that the dwarven merchant he'd met carried the tents in his donkey cart. He only hoped the Black Wolves hadn't slain the dwarf, his son, and their mule, and taken the goods. He'd left orders for them to warn off the traveling merchant and anyone else coming along the road to Redcliffe, but what they had done while he was gone on his scouting mission...

"The crossroads are just up here," Alistair said.

"Then how far to this town?" Bannon asked.

"About a mile."

"It will be dark by then," Leliana complained.

"But if we make it, we won't have to set up camp," Bannon pointed out. "And we can sleep in real beds."

Zevran licked his lips, thinking that a fine idea, but alas, it was not to be. As they came to the crossroads, they saw a fire nearby, and that, in turn, revealed the donkey cart.

There was a warm reunion with the dwarven merchant, Bodahn was his name. A great sharing of gossip and news of the road, and the plight of Redcliffe transpired. Alistair introduced Zevran, warning Bodahn not to trust him or sell him anything, as he was an assassin and their prisoner. The dwarf did a startled double-take, and Zevran smiled pleasantly at him. Bodahn was no idiot. He decided it wouldn't be politick to say how he'd given all the details of the Wardens' strength and numbers to their assassin.

The companions began sorting out their camp. Zevran was grateful to return Leliana's pack to her. He'd been speculating all day what in Thedas could be so heavy in it. She either collected rocks, or was one of those daft people who liked to cart around books everywhere.

Nobody wanted Zevran near their tents, or the food - wisely - so he dogged the Wardens' footsteps, watching them work while he himself remained smirkingly idle. Finally, Alistair said, "Why don't you go collect wood for the fire?"

"Oh, I can help you get wood," he replied with a leer. That was once again lost on the Fereldens. Zevran sighed inwardly. "I would be most happy to, but then I might put some powder in it that would release a soporific smoke that would knock you all out and allow me to kill you while you slept."

Alistair looked alarmed. Zevran grinned slyly. "So you see, my sexy Grey Warden, I'm afraid there is nothing I can do to help set up camp that I could not sabotage in some manner. Not," he was hasty to add, "that I wish to! But you are trying to be careful, no?"

Bannon said, "You can dig latrines."

Zevran's face fell. "But...!" No, try as he might, he couldn't see how one could sabotage a hole in the ground. "I will have to go some distance away from the main camp. I could perhaps slip away and escape, no?"

"I'll go with you," Bannon said unexpectedly. He went to fetch a pair of spades from the dwarf. Curious, Zevran followed.

Behind them, he heard Alistair speaking to empty air. "Did he just call me sexy?"

Oh yes, these Fereldens were going to take some work.

===#===

They found a bare spot out of sight and hearing of the camp. Zevran unbuckled his armguards and started shucking his cuirass.

"What are you doing?" Bannon asked him.

"If we are going to be straining and sweating out here, this is more comfortable." Zevran looked directly at him and smiled slowly.

The Warden stared. Ah, this time he noticed the leer! Zevran peeled his sleeveless shirt off, turning slightly to show off his tawny muscles to advantage. Bannon just shrugged and unbuckled his own armor. Now they were getting somewhere! The dark-haired elf frowned at the large slice in the left sleeve of his cuirass.

"Sorry about that," Zevran said.

"No you're not."

Zevran quirked a brow and tipped his head. "I suppose you are right," he admitted. "Though I know how difficult it is to repair leather." He watched avidly as Bannon pulled his own shirt off. He was at least as well-muscled and lean as Zevran himself. Very handsome. "I don't suppose you're sorry you stuck your sword in my leg?"

The other elf just gave him a pointed look. Zevran chuckled. "Normally, I don't allow a man's weapon that close to that part of my body - not an edged weapon, anyway." Was he taking the hint? "It's lucky I don't wear pants."

Bannon shook his head and bent to pick up the spades. "I said I'd give you a hand, not do all the work for you." He tossed one of the small shovels to Zevran. The assassin sighed and started digging.

"So you were in Denerim?" Bannon asked after a minute. "Do you have any news from there?"

Now the elf's ulterior motive became clear. He'd said he was from Denerim. Zevran shrugged. "Probably the same you'd hear on the road anywhere." The dwarven merchant had already gossipped about the grand political meeting and the civil unrest amongst the nobles.

Bannon frowned and started digging beside Zevran. "But what about the alienage?"

Zevran didn't think it was wise to mention the Purge. What could the Warden do about it, anyway? "I did not go there," he said. "I spent less than half a day in the city. I visited the Arl of Denerim's estate, and then the castle."

"You saw the Arl of Denerim?"

"Yes, that fellow I said hired me. Howe."

Bannon frowned. "He's the arl, now?"

"_Si._ Some new fellow, from up north, I heard."

Brow still wrinkled in thought, Bannon attacked the earth with his spade. "Were there any executions?"

"No..." That was an odd one. "Why do you ask?"

"My cousin was taken prisoner by the city guard. I thought... I'm worried he'll be executed."

Zevran shrugged. "No, the only talk going around was about the defeat at Ostagar, and the king's untimely demise, the number of nobles and troops in the city, that big meeting of all the nobles."

"Maybe they're too busy with that to worry about one elven prisoner." He didn't sound very hopeful, though. It made Zevran glad he hadn't mentioned the Purge.

They finished digging in silence, then washed up in the stream nearby and returned to the campfire for dinner. The women stared at the damp-haired, shirtless elves, until Zevran leered at them. Alistair said he'd been worried about them, but Bannon brushed it off.

===#===

At last, it was time to bed down and set the watches. The qunari was exempt due to his need for rest and recovery.

"Who's going to watch the assassin tonight?" Bannon asked, looking to foist the duty off on Alistair.

"You said you'd watch him," the Templar pointed out.

"I think we should take turns," the elf explained. "That way, no one will get tired and let down their guard."

Morrigan said, "Oh, I'll watch him." They all looked in her direction. "I'll watch him until he stops twitching, and then we won't have to worry about it any longer."

"Morrigan is exempt," Bannon said quickly. "She already said she wouldn't help." The witch smirked and went to her own tent.

"I don't think it would be seemly for him to be in Leliana's tent," Alistair said.

Zevran put in, "I certainly wouldn't mind!"

"I have to agree with Alistair on this one," the Chantry Sister said.

"All right, so it's between you and me," Bannon told the Templar. He fished a silver coin out of his pouch. "Heads I win, tails you lose." He flipped the coin into the air.

"_Hold it!_"

Bannon made a snatch for the coin, but Alistair's outburst made him flub it. The silver flew off and landed in the dirt. "Dammit, Alistair!" He went to retrieve it. A whole silver! At least they were big.

Alistair dogged him. "Don't go making the new guy think I'm stupid. I'm not _that_ stupid!"

So much for that plan. "Come on, I was just joking!" Bannon found the coin and stood up. "So call it." With a flick of his thumb, he launched the coin into the air.

"Heads!"

Bannon caught the silver in his palm, then showed it to Alistair. "Tails. I win."

"No," the Templar insisted. "That's not right! You have to catch the coin, then slap it over on your other arm. See, if it's tails in your hand, that would make it actually heads."

Bannon sighed. "You're just saying that because you lost."

"I am not!"

Zevran sidled closer to Alistair. "I wouldn't mind sleeping with you. I'm sure it will be most pleasurable." The assassin leered up at the human, while Alistair's face showed only bewildered horror.

"But... I'm a guy!"

Zevran chuckled throatily. "Such a tall, handsome one, too."

"You like men?" Bannon asked incredulously.

Zevran turned his honeyed gaze on him. "I like women _and_ men," he said with a smile.

"Both?" Alistair squeaked.

"I was born and raised in a whorehouse," the assassin explained. "The whores, both men and women, all knew that the art of pleasuring both sexes would give them more opportunities to earn coin. So... I learned to appreciate broad tastes, shall we say." He grinned.

Alistiar gaped. Bannon found himself gaping, too. Only Leliana didn't seem surprised. "Uh...," Bannon said when he got his jaw working again. Men together? Men? _Together?_ He shook his head and turned to Alistair. "So you lost the coin toss-"

"Oh no!" Alistair wasn't buying it. "We're going to do a proper coin toss."

Bannon sighed. Well, he still had a 50/50 chance. "All right. Heads again?"

"Yep."

The coin spun in the air. Bannon caught it without looking at it this time, afraid to know. He slapped it over on his forearm and they all gathered around to look. He lifted his hand and swore underbreath. Heads.

"I win!" Alistair crowed. "He's sleeping in your tent tonight!"

Bannon suppressed a groan. He didn't want Alistair rubbing it in, after all. "All right, turn around," he told the Antivan elf, "so we can tie you."

"Ooh, kinky!"

Maker's Breath, how did you deal with someone who enjoyed being tied up? Bannon got the rope and started wrapping it around the assassin's wrists.

"That's not a very good job," Zevran complained. "I'm sure I could wriggle out of these - ow!" This last as Bannon vengefully yanked a knot tight.

Leliana stepped over. "Allow me." She took the rope from Bannon's hands and began re-tying. "You want to bind one hand first, then tie the other to it." She finished a few more loops, then tested the slack with her fingers. "How is that, Zevran? Not too tight?"

"It is a masterful job, my dear," he said over his shoulder. "You've done this before."

"Well, I wasn't always a Chantry Sister, you know." Leliana cleared her throat and stepped away as the three men stared speculatively.

Then Zevran said, "There is only one problem."

"Now what?" Alistair asked.

"I have to take a leak." His captors moaned, and Leliana continued moving away. "No, no, no," Zevran assured them. "You don't have to untie me. Just reach under my kilt, Alistair;" he cocked his hips at the Templar; "and gently gra-"

"Augh!" Alistair fled.

"Oh come on!" Bannon shoved the laughing assassin towards the path to the latrines.

Zevran staggered along. "Did you see the look on his face?" He snickered. "At the mere thought of touching another man! You Fereldens are so funny!" Suddenly, he sobered. "You wouldn't, would you? I mean... you are going to untie me?"

Bannon just snorted noncommittally and took the opportunity to give the guy another shove.

"Because I was joking about that, you know."

Bannon smirked. "I thought you liked men."

"Oh, I do! And I like them touching me there. But for sex," the assassin was quick to point out. "Not for... you know. That would just be embarrassing."

Bannon chuckled to himself as he loosened the rope. This guy was so full of hot air. He left one end tied to the assassin's left wrist and played out the rest like a leash.

"Would you mind turning around?" Zevran asked him.

"What, so you can sneak up on me. Not a chance."

"I won't! I'll be far too occupied."

"All right. If you sing."

"Sing?" Zevran seemed aghast at the idea.

"If you sing, I can tell where you are at all times," Bannon pointed out.

The assassin pouted. "I do not sing." Then he brightened. "Oh! I know, I shall recite poetry! 'There once was a man from Orlais-' Are you turning around?"

"Yes," the thief insisted, shuffling his feet on the grass.

He endured two stanzas of the Orlesian's erotic misadventures. Then Zevran turned back around. "I thought you had your back turned!" he yelped.

"I thought you were finished!" Bannon countered.

The assassin grumbled, but he didn't make any smart remarks on the way back.

===#===

Bannon got his hands retied; the assassin approved of the job he did with that. Then he unrolled Zevran's bedroll at one side of the tent.

"If you lay that out next to yours, we could-"

"Not a chance!"

Bannon found another length of rope and tied Zevran's bonds to the center post of the tent. "Just lie down and go to sleep." He blew out the lamp and rolled up in his own blanket.

"Bannon..." The assassin's voice drifted through the darkness.

Bannon groaned. "Now what?"

"I was just wondering... you said you would tell me later, about why the Grey Wardens recruited you."

Bannon shifted onto his back and pursed his lips in thought. "You can't mention this to the others."

"Of course not, _mi patrone_."

"I told you Soris - that's my cousin - was taken by the city guard. They were going to arrest us both for murder. Duncan got me out of it by conscripting me into the Grey Wardens."

Cloth rustled as the assassin shifted. "Who did you kill?"

"The son of the Arl of Denerim. A pissant little bastard named Vaughn." The familiar heat of anger burned through the elf at the thought of that shem. After all that had happened since, he wouldn't mind killing the bastard all over again.

"A nobleman? You set your sights quite high indeed. Why did you select him as your target?"

"He was always coming around the alienage, treating it like his own personal playground," Bannon snarled. "He took some women, to be his whores, he said. He took them right from their wedding. He took my cousin, Shianni, too." He fisted his hands in the blanket. "Soris and I got some weapons to rescue them. No one else would. We snuck into the estate, killed a bunch of guards, then Vaughn and his friends."

"How many were there?"

"Umm... three noblemen besides Vaughn." Bannon flicked back through his memories of fighting through the estate. "And seventeen guards." He flinched as the assassin suddenly sat bolt upright. Bannon twisted to face him.

"Twenty-one?" Zevran's amber eyes glittered in the near darkness. "That is an impressive kill-count, my friend!"

Bannon flushed with pride. He tried to shake it off. "I didn't kill them by myself," he insisted. "Soris helped."

"Still, for two men? Even the Crows would be impressed. How many people have you killed before then?"

"You're joking, right? We didn't go around killing people."

"It was your _first_ mission? Damn!"

"Keep your voice down," Bannon shushed the exuberant assassin.

"Damn," Zevran said again, more quietly. "On my first mission, I only killed one guard. Well, three, really, but those others weren't confirmed. Of course, I was quite young, then."

Bannon swelled with pride a bit more - hell, an assassin? Impressed with him? He ignored Zevran's puffing up of his own prowess.

"How many of the nobles did you kill yourself?" he asked, eager for more of the story.

"Vaughn," Bannon said. "And a lordling's little brother. Soris killed one. The other guy, Vaughn killed him by accident, while he was fighting me."

Zevran nodded in the darkness. "I have misjudged you, I think. You are truly as worthy an opponent as an Antivan Crow."

"Thanks," Bannon said. "I think." He still wasn't too sure about this guy, with all his hot air and flattery. "Now go to sleep." The assassin lay back down, and Bannon shifted around in his own bedroll.

"Someday you must tell me all the details of this adventure of yours," Zevran said. "I would truly like to hear the whole lurid tale."

Bannon rolled his eyes. "Maybe if you're good. Go to sleep."

===#===

Zevran lay back, then grimaced as his tied hands poked into him. He shifted to one side. He tried to sleep, but his eyes wouldn't stay closed. He'd gone along all day without thinking, contemplating; just reacting from moment to moment. Now that everything was quiet... thoughts intruded upon his mind. Some thoughts of the future, some memories of the past. He didn't want to deal with any of them, so he resisted.

_A free man._ These words finally percolated to the surface. He rolled them around experimentally, tasting them. Fear. That's what the words engendered. He bit down on his tongue. It was only the slave mentality talking.

But never once had Zevran ever contemplated leaving the Crows. Probably because no one ever did. Any who tried to leave the guild were slain. If they had even a sliver of success, they were hunted down mercilessly. So it was all unexpected to Zevran, this crazy idea that had gotten into his head: escaping from the Crows. And living!

Well, for as long as that lasted, anyway. There was no doubt the Crows would come for him. But not tonight. First, it had to become clear that Zevran failed in his mission, and then that he still lived. Then assassins would have to be dispatched. They'd have to find him. And then manage to kill him. With his new allies - whom he planned to stick to _very_ closely - that would be difficult.

For now, he was alive. No sense worrying about being killed sometime in the next few months. Hell, a darkspawn could eat him tomorrow. Zevran had learned young to enjoy life to its fullest. You never knew when a day might be your last.

He finally drifted into sleep.

===#===

..._failure_...

"How is it," Master Farkus rumbled like thunder, "that you have _failed_ in this mission assigned to you, yet you still live?" The mountainous human sat behind his desk, his fat fingers interlaced on the surface. The skull of the Master's signet ring glinted on his left hand.

Zevran didn't recall moving, but he found himself on his knees on the Master's plush carpet. "I have not failed, Master."

"You failed to kill your marks!"

"But they did not kill me, Master. They have taken me in, taken my _word_-" he sneered at the thought of words having the power to bind- "that I am now their ally. Once they drop their guard, it shall be easy to slay them!"

The Crow Master did not seem convinced. "You lying, dirty little whore-son knife-ears!"

"No, I-"

"You know the penalty for failure."

Dark figures detached themselves from the shadows around the room. They surrounded him, looming larger as they approached.

"I did not fail!"

The rug was gone from beneath his knees. Couldn't stain it with dirty elf blood.

"I will not fail!"

Weapons dangled from the dark figures' hands. A coiled whip, a barbed flogger, a cudgel. This beating wasn't going to end.

"_I cannot fail!_"

A scream ripped through Zevran's nightmare, casting it to the floor in shreds. He didn't know where he was at first. He was bound! He yanked at the rope; it was fastened to something. He scrambled to get at least to his knees as another scream tore through the darkness. No echo; no wood, no stone; were the walls swaying? Tent!

Zevran twisted towards the screams. Another figure leapt up; just a shadow. Its head whipped towards him, then the figure reached down and a blade was in its hand.

"Warden! You had a nightmare." Zevran groped for the words that would save him. "I'm-" He didn't think 'I'm the assassin who tried to kill you yesterday' would work. "- a friend!"

The figure, the elf Warden, slumped, panting. He ran a hand down over his face. "Just another nightmare."

"Yes."

From outside came the other Warden's voice. "Bannon? You all right?"

"Yeah." Bannon's voice was loud in the small confines of the tent. More quietly, he said to Zevran, "Sorry I woke you." He grabbed his armor and weapons and went outside.

Zevran lay back, cajoling his heart to slow down. "I'm not."

===#===

He must have dozed off again, for he was awakened by something rustling in the tent. "Wh-?"

"Shh."

Zevran looked around. Bannon was rifling through a pack. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing. Warden business." He seemed to have found what he was looking for. It appeared to be a bundle of cloth, with one long bit hanging loose. "Go back to sleep."

"Are we under attack?"

"No."

"Then what 'Warden business'?" Zevran demanded. He squirmed around til he faced the tent flap, so he could see.

"If I tell you I'm playing a joke on Alistair, will you shut up?" the Warden hissed.

"Oh ho! Of course, _mi patrone_." Zevran grinned. This was going to be more fun than the Crows!

===#===

Bannon, Zevran, Leliana, and Sten sat around the morning's campfire. Zevran and Leliana kept exchanging glances and shooting looks towards Alistair's tent, where the former Templar still slumbered. Bannon prodded the fire with a stick while Sten merely stared at the pot, waiting for it to boil. The dwarves were still abed. As for Morrigan, she kept to herself. Bannon didn't think it wise to attempt to engage her in the mornings.

"Alistair," Bannon called; "breakfast is almost ready!"

The bard and assassin turned their attention back to Alistair's tent. Bannon remained nonchalant until the knight started screaming. Then he leapt to his feet and whirled to see Alistair struggling to stand upright while wrestling with a horrid paisley shirt that was draped over his head.

"Oh no! The Paisley Monstrosity has returned!" Bannon ran over. "Hold still, Alistair, while I beat it off with a stick!" He raised the one he was holding.

Almost instantly, Alistair stopped struggling, his arms at his sides. Slowly, he reached up and pulled the shirt off his face. His brows lowering into a straight line, he looked at Bannon.

Bannon froze with the stick upraised to strike. He and Alistair stared at each other a full minute, each waiting for the other to crack. A muscle in Bannon's cheek twitched.

Alistair shifted his eyes to the stick. Then back at Bannon. Bannon swiftly put the stick behind his back with a sheepish grin. Alistair broke and shook the shirt in his fist. "How the hell did this get here?"

"Oh! It must have slain that family of chipmunks and followed you."

Alistair gave him another long, hard stare. Bannon didn't twitch an eyelash. Frustrated, the human stomped towards the fire, where Sten was doling out porridge. "I don't understand how come I can't get rid of this thing!"

"You are cursed, no?" Zevran piped up. Alistair just glowered at him.

Bannon said, "It is a curse. I told you, it won't rest until you wear it."

"Wear it? But look at it!" The knight held it up in demonstration. "It has huge - gigunda - cuffs. With dagged edges!" He grasped an edge lined with little triangles, like banners on a castle wall, and shook it emphatically. "And it's paisley. In purple! Who _would_ wear it? I'm serious! Tell me when this ever would have been fashionable in Ferelden. Or anywhere!"

Bannon, Zevran, and Leliana stared at the shirt. Sten blew on a spoonful of his porridge to cool it. Then Bannon said, "You think Flemeth did a clown?"

Alistair cocked a brow at the shirt and held it slightly further away from himself. "That... actually makes sense."

"All you need now," said Zevran, "is a pair of huge purple pants." They all looked at him. "To complete the ensemble. Oh, and those giant floppy shoes." He nodded sagely.

"Right," Alistair said, balling the shirt in one fist. "I'll take care of it." He headed off towards the edge of camp.

Bannon returned to the fire, dropping his stick back on the woodpile. He grabbed a bowl and slopped a heaping portion into it. Zevran looked at Leliana, his brows raised questioningly. She just shrugged.

===#===

A little while later, Zevran was packing up Bannon's tent. So glad to no longer be a slave, he thought acerbically. He was beginning to realize why he still felt like one. He took the folded tent to the dwarf's cart. Bannon was there, talking to Bodahn and arranging for payment.

The Warden turned to Zevran. "How are you at hunting?"

The assassin shrugged. "You mean... chasing animals about in the wilderness? Not so good. I am, after all, a city elf." Quickly he added, "Now, stalking a mark through the streets and alleyways and killing him? This, I can do."

"Yeah, it's pretty much the same," Bannon said. Zevran wondered how much practice the Denerim elf had with either method. He was forestalled from asking by Bannon handing him a longbow. "Here's your bow. If you see any deer, we should go after them." He also handed Zevran a quiver of dark-fletched arrows.

"This is not my bow," the Antivan said.

"Yeah, it is."

"No, my bow is bigger, a white yew-." Zevran stared as Bannon pulled the very bow from the supplies.

The Denerim elf smiled faintly. "I believe you're thinking of _my_ bow."

Zevran ground his teeth. That little-! He smoothed his brow and managed a bit of a chuckle. "Ah, of course, _mi patrone_." He bowed, mainly to hide the murderous glint in his eye.

Bannon didn't offer him any melee weapons. Not even a dull little belt knife suitable only for eating. It was a sound strategy, Zevran grudgingly admitted. A bow would be next to useless in close quarters, so the Wardens would be relatively safe as he traveled with them. And, if there was an attack, Zevran could at least be marginally useful in picking at the enemies from a distance. Perhaps such a happy event would occur, and he could prove his loyalty. Then he could have his blades back.

Zevran clenched his teeth. If that damned thief didn't keep them!

===#===

They passed Alistair as the knight was bringing his tent to Bodahn's cart.

"Alistair, what happened to the Paisley Monstrosity?"

The human stopped. "Oh, you know what? It followed me to the latrines and I accidentally mistook it for an arse-rag. I don't think it's coming back from that one." With a clearly fake moue of sadness, the Templar shook his head and carried on.

Bannon watched him go a second. "Come on," he said to Zevran; "help me find that shirt."

"I am not fishing that hideous thing out of the latrines!" the assassin hissed. But he followed his patron as the Denerim elf headed in that direction.

"No, no," Bannon assured him. "If that's really what he did with it, forget it. But he probably just hid it around here somewhere."

===#===


	12. Of Demons & Templars, Bards & Assassins

Of Demons and Templars, Of Bards and Assassins

**Content:**

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama/Humor

Language: some

Violence: none

Nudity: partial (m), implied (m)

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Notes:_

More bits of business amidst the companions. Zevran's second night.

Typos squashed by spellcheck net.

* * *

><p><strong>Of Demons and Templars, Of Bards and Assassins<strong>

===#===

The next night saw them camping out once again. Bannon sent Zevran off to dig the latrines - by himself this time. He had to do something to get rid of the other elf. The Antivan hadn't shut up all day, and he was _very_ friendly. With everyone! Bannon glanced at the qunari and shuddered. He had to be joking about Sten!

His thoughts were interrupted by Alistair. "I'm worried about Morrigan."

"More than the assassin?"

"At this point, I'd have to sit down and think about that one. But I don't think Zevran can actually talk us to death. If Morrigan made a deal with that demon..."

"What exactly would happen?" Bannon understood the concept of demonic possession being A Bad Thing, but other than that, he knew next to nothing about it.

"Either she's in control of the demon and can use it to enhance her powers - at least until it breaks free. Or... it is already in control and just biding its time until it's ready to slay us."

Bannon rubbed his neck, noticing how long his hair was getting. "Look, I'll talk to Morrigan."

"Maybe I should talk to her."

The elf's brows went up. "You want to talk to her?" That was unusual. Not to mention a recipe for disaster.

"I have training as a Templar. I'm not a full Templar, but I know how to deal with mages and demons..."

"You're enough of a Templar that she'll spook if you try to talk to her. Let me at least go first. I'll let you know if I notice anything strange."

Alistair looked unhappy. To distract him, Bannon said, "See if Leliana will give you another trim. That wild bear-man seems to be lurking nearby." The spot of humor seemed to cheer Alistair up. Bannon walked over to the little corner of the clearing the witch had staked out for herself.

===#===

"Need any help?" Bannon asked her cheerily. She didn't say 'yes' of course; that might imply some weakness or neediness on her part. But she wasn't shy about ordering him around. He collected brush to cushion her bedroll, and got her fire started. Not a bad job for a city elf.

"So," Morrigan began their conversation; "not stabbed in the back yet?"

Bannon chuckled dryly. "No, but I haven't allowed Zevran a blade yet."

"Hence the possibility that you will die a foolish and useless death is still a good one." Vehemence laced her tone. What would she have to be angry about? Unless she wanted to be the one to kill the Wardens. Though she'd had her chance, many a time.

"Why Morrigan... you actually sound as if you care." He said it softly, careful not to goad her. She did not reply. Also uncharacteristic. There was no way this was the effect of a demon. In Connor, the thing had been insane. Out of control. "What would you do if that happened?" he asked, referring to his foolish demise.

"Leave Ferelden." She met his eyes. "Since it would soon be devastated by the Blight, having no Grey Wardens to defend it."

"That could still happen. Even with two whole Grey Wardens here."

Morrigan pinched her lips shut and busied herself with her pack, moving and rearranging things; setting out a few pouches. "Where's Bodahn and his infernal cart? I'll need more potion flasks."

"He'll be along." Bannon sat on the ground near the fire, pretending to tend it until it was well-established.

Morrigan sighed and turned to face him, idly fiddling with a small packet. "Why is it you are here?"

"To check up on you."

"Worried about me?" she asked archly. "Or worried about yourselves?"

Now seemed as good a time as any to broach the subject. "Alistair is worried that you didn't actually defeat that demon. That you made a deal with it, or... are already possessed."

Her golden gaze didn't waver. "And what do you think?"

He spread his hands. "Like I say, I'm just a backstreet city elf. I don't know anything about demons except what's in the stories. I don't think you're possessed. That demon was much more insane."

"It was impulsive," Morrigan clarified, half-questioning. "Flighty. Childish, even?"

Bannon frowned, chewing at the inside of his lip. "You mean, because it was inside a boy's mind?"

"The spirits and demons of the Fade can only view our world through our perceptions."

"That's why the demon thought Eamon was its father?"

"'Twas a young demon, as such things go. Naive about the real world. Living vicariously through her host's mind."

Bannon frowned harder. Morrigan wasn't exactly denying having made a deal. "Connor told Alistair that the demon promised to keep Eamon alive. That if we fought it, took Connor away from it, it would... I don't know, release it's hold on Eamon's spirit? Let him pass through the Fade and on into death."

"But...?"

"But, he didn't die. After you... removed the demon from the boy."

The witch smiled faintly. "A reasonable assumption might be that I made another deal with that demon. To keep the arl alive. What would you think of that?"

Bannon sat back, leaning on his hands. He puffed out a breath. "Well, Alistair seems to think this Arl Eamon holds the key to ousting Loghain. Bann Teagan himself told us no one else mattered; we had to save Eamon at any cost." He looked over at her. She slowly raised one brow. "Alistair also says - keep in mind, he's the only one trained and educated in these matters, which is why I have to rely on him - he says a strong mage could control a demon. Use its power to enhance her own."

"Would you consider that a good deal, then?"

"Keep Eamon alive... become a stronger mage to help us fight? Sure." He shrugged, sitting upright again. "But... Alistair also says the demon would still try to escape control. And eventually, it would destroy us all."

Morrigan picked up the little packet of herbs she held. She looked at it, turning it over in her hands. Then she leaned and put it away neatly back into her pack. Bannon waited quietly, until she faced him again, her gaze steady. "Do I seem the sort of woman to you," she asked, "who would relinquish control of herself to some demon?"

"No. Definitely not. But," he returned her gaze frankly; "you do seem the sort of woman who would feel strong and confident enough to try to control one."

She smiled slowly. "I see. To answer your unasked question: No. I did not bargain with the demon for power or for the arl's life. I defeated her in combat and broke her hold on the boy. As for how Eamon yet lives, I do not know. Perhaps his hold is tenuous. Perhaps he has already expired, or will do so soon."

"Or," Bannon mused cautiously, "you could just be lying."

"About any or all of it," she agreed cheerfully. "'Tis always an option."

"You don't exactly instill people with confidence."

"I try to be honest." She tilted her head. "What would it take for you to trust that I am not harboring a demon?"

"I don't know." Bannon prodded the fire. This resulted in some of the sticks collapsing, so then he had to fuss with it further to keep it from smothering itself.

"Perhaps if I gave my word? That's how the assassin gained your trust, is it not?"

"I do not trust him," he told her firmly. "He's full of bullshit. All those stories about being chained up in crates, or hanging down wells, but that wasn't him because they paid too much for him or some nonsense?" The assassin seemed flippantly careless when speaking about his enslavement. Could that all be a lie? A bid for sympathy? But why wouldn't he have bothered to at least make an effort to sound sincere?

Morrigan took the stick from Bannon's hand and thrust it into the fire, expertly twisting it so enough air got in under the base to keep the flames alive. She wedged the stick into place and began adding more, building a new foundation. "What would it take for you to trust him?"

Bannon wondered that himself. "I guess... some outside confirmation of his story. We don't even know if he's really in danger from these other Antivan Crows."

"They need to show up and kill him?"

"Or, I suppose Zevran would have to save me and Alistair from certain death." Bannon looked at Morrigan. "What would it take for you to trust him?"

The witch snorted. "I trust no one. Not completely."

"You're here with us," he pointed out. Then he glanced at her little campsite, deliberately separated from the Wardens. "Sort of."

"There are different levels of trust," she said. "Trusting someone to work with you as long as it achieves their own ends? That is not a problem. Trusting that someone would never turn on you? 'Tis asking a bit much. Especially when they've already tried to kill you."

"Trust, but with reservations," Bannon mused. Then he nodded. "That seems the wisest course and the best use of resources. For now, I'll trust you aren't harboring a demon - or at least that you are in complete control of it. And if that proves wrong, it will be dealt with, swiftly."

Morrigan frowned, her head lowered as if not expecting the conversation to turn on her. He got up to leave. "Wait," she said. "Bannon, I'd like to ask you something. If you'll allow."

Curious, he hunkered back down.

She did not look at him, but she said, "That woman, Isolde. She was willing to give up her life for her child. Do you find that... unusual?"

He blinked. "No." With a shrug, he said, "That seems normal."

"Would your mother die for you?"

He flinched, not expecting the sudden stab of pain. He hadn't thought about his family for a few days. They all seemed so distant, unreachable. And his mother - she was long dead. The witch's question dredged it back up. Adaia hadn't died for him. But would she have? He and his mother had been close - he took after her so much more than his father. It hurt him to think of her dying for him, because of him, but... "Yes," he said softly. "I think she would have."

"I see. Thank you." Morrigan stared thoughtfully at the small fire.

"You don't think Flemeth-?" Her sharp glare cut off his words. "But mother bears protect their cubs. Even a city elf knows that," he said, trying to mollify her.

"There are some creatures who eat their young," she replied tartly. "Some who would let their offspring starve in order that they, themselves, may live. After all," she said, "they can always have another litter."

Bannon really didn't know what to say about that. "I suppose that is so."

"It is. Thank you for talking with me."

He stood up again, rather relieved at the abrupt dismissal. "You can talk to me any time, Morrigan," he assured her. "I'll send Bodahn over with your things as soon as he arrives."

===#===

Leliana was busy trimming Alistair's hair, so Bannon was on cooking duty. They hadn't spotted any deer that day, so it was vegetable soup again. When Alistair was bristling like a newborn hedgehog, Bannon took a turn sitting for Leliana's ministrations. Alistair took over stirring the soup.

Zevran reappeared, shirtless again. He'd also been bathing. He'd let down his warrior braids and had his wet hair tied back in a single ponytail. He stopped suddenly as he saw them. "What are you doing?"

"Making soup," said Alistair. Rather exaggerating his role as cook.

"I'm cutting the Wardens' hair," Leliana said.

"But I like you with long hair," the assassin said to Bannon.

The Denerim elf rolled his eyes. Instead of answering, he said to Alistiar, "It's your turn to watch him tonight."

"Oh, no," said the Templar. "We can flip the coin again. In fact, I think it's my turn to flip it. Give it here."

Bannon grumbled to himself, and Leliana paused while he fished out a silver. He gave it to Alistair. Zevran, meanwhile, hunkered down near them. "Is this what is so heavy in your pack?" he asked Leliana, peering over into her makeup kit. "Perhaps you would like to help me braid up my hair again this evening?" The opportunist gave a grin.

"Perhaps your assigned guardian tonight will do that," the bard deflected smoothly.

Bannon groaned, and Alistair said, "Oh, please don't give him any ideas!"

Too late. "Ah, it would be marvelous to have such handsome men running their fingers through my hair."

"Don't think so," Alistair said.

"Just flip the coin," Bannon told him.

Alistair did so. "Call it."

"He- no, tails!"

The Templar caught the coin and trapped it on his forearm, but he didn't lift his hand. "Well, which is it?"

"Tails."

Alistair peeked under his hand. "Blast."

"Yes!" cheered the elf, raising a fist.

"Hold still," Leliana chided him.

"_Bene!_" the Antivan said with a smile. "I look forward to spending the night with you, my strong, handsome captor." He leered hungrily at Alistair.

"Gah!" Alistair flushed uncomfortably. "You are going to be tied up _very_ securely!"

"Ooh! Bondage!"

"Oh for Maker's Sake!" Alistair's face reddened further as the Antivan wound him up. "And you," he said to Bannon; "you're still taking him 'walkies' beforehand!"

"All right, all right," the elf chuckled. The assassin started making eyes at him, but Bannon ignored him. Let Alistair make a fool of himself, Bannon wasn't going to fall into that trap.

===#===

After dinner was washing up. Zevran had found a small pond for water, but it didn't leave much room for privacy. The Wardens let the ladies go first. Then Bannon had Leliana watch the assassin while he and Alistair took their turn. Sten would continue his evening watch and then bathe later.

"Morrigan says she didn't make any deal with that demon," Bannon reported, when the two of them were alone. He started shucking his armor.

"Do you believe her?"

He shrugged. "I don't have any _proof_ if that's what you're asking. Do the Templars have any fool-proof way to determine if someone is possessed?"

Alistair puffed out his cheeks as he released a breath. "No," he replied glumly.

"Well, for now we'll have to presume Morrigan is fine, and she's still on our side. If she ever shows any definite sign otherwise..." The elf sidled a little closer to the human, glancing around for any birds lurking nearby. "Take care of it."

"Me?"

"You're the Templar, Ser 'I've been trained' and blah blah blah."

Alistair rubbed his face, then moved off behind a clump of reeds to finish disrobing. "There is something about the training I didn't mention."

"Oh?"

"Templars _are_ trained to control and fight mages. So we do have these techniques for cancelling and suppressing magic."

Now that sounded handy. "Can you teach it to other people?" Bannon stepped down into the pond. The water was chilly and the bottom was muddy. He grimaced as it squelched between his toes.

"W- no. I mean, these teaching are only for the sacred order of Templars."

Alistair didn't sound completely sure about this conviction. "Does that mean you shouldn't be using it? Since you're no longer officially a Templar?"

"Well, I can't unlearn it," Alistair protested quickly. "And if we come across any of those hurlock mages... It's my Grey Warden duty to fight them with everything I've got." Good to know he held his Warden duty as more sacred than his former allegiances. "Anyway," he continued, splashing water over his chest, "I don't even know if these techniques can work without lyrium."

"Lyrium?"

"It's a mineral mined out of Orzammar, and refined into a potion. In mages, it replenishes their magical energy."

"Templars use magic?" Bannon asked. Wait, all you needed to do magic was some potion? He wouldn't mind some of that!

"No," Alistair said firmly. "It's not magic. It's... well, it's willpower, basically. You focus that and... you know, smite with your mind."

Now Bannon just stared at him, trying to imagine Alistair with the brainpower to knock a mage over.

"Hah-ha," the former Templar said. "I see that look."

"No, I was just-"

"Yeah, right." Alistair's voice lacked heat. "Anyway, I've practiced it, but only on inanimate targets, and without lyrium. My instructors said I did well, but I really have no way of knowing."

"So how can we test it?"

"Ah, well, we need an evil mage to attack us. Next time that happens, I'll try it and let you know how it works."

"Pfft." Another brilliant plan, there. Bannon got out of the pond, swishing mud off his feet before climbing up onto the muddy bank. He grabbed a towel and dried off.

"Before you go, would you mind holding the mirror for me?"

Bannon looked back at the human. He was contemplatively rubbing his sandpapery chin. "Oh! Sure." The elf went and found Alistair's razor and polished steel hand mirror.

"Uh, could you bring me a towel first?"

Shems! Bannon did as Alistair requested. Finally, the pair were perched on a stone, the elf holding the mirror steady while the human wet his bristles and coaxed them to stand out. Bannon watched in morbid fascination as Alistair slid the honed steel against his skin, mowing down the little hairs.

"What if we get you some lyrium?" Bannon asked, careful to do so between strokes of the blade.

"Well, the Chantry controls all lyrium trade."

"We are heading to the Circle Tower. There's a lot of mages and Templars there; they must have some stocked up."

Alistair grimaced. "Look, the thing about taking lyrium... it's addictive. And lyrium itself is poisonous - deadly in its raw form. The potion... it takes longer, but - I just don't want to go through any of that. It's why I got out of the Templars."

"And into the Grey Wardens, where at least the darkspawn blood isn't addictive," Bannon quipped darkly. "But you're still poisoned and going to die."

Alistair grimaced. "Well, see, the lyrium destroys your mind." He tapped his noggin. "Don't have much up here, I'd kinda like to not lessen it any."

Bannon chuckled darkly.

===#===

The freshly-scrubbed Wardens returned to find Leliana and Zevran sitting cross-legged in front of his pack, the contents of which were laid out in neat piles. The assassin had his hands bound securely behind his back, but was grinning all the same. Sten loomed nearby.

"What are we doing?" Alistair asked.

"We're playing a marvelous game called Guess the Poison!" Zevran said. "Leliana is using her skill and extensive knowledge to identify the poisons in my possession, and then determine the antidote that goes with each. I have offered a kiss as forfeit each time she is correct, but alas -"

"Why don't you just feed him some poison," Bannon cut in; "then ask him which antidote he wants?"

Leliana suppressed a snicker as Zevran's face fell. "Well," he said defensively, "I have built up quite an immunity to poisons. I can probably get away with cheating."

"Uh huh."

"All right, fine. I have been telling her what everything is, and she has been deciding whether to believe me or not."

"Maybe we should just dump it all out," Alistair suggested.

"No!" the assassin yelped. "It is not all poison! I have a great many healing supplies, a miraculous muscle ointment, massage oil - my Antivan brandy!"

Bannon saw where his frantic eyes alighted. "What, this?" He bent and scooped up the flask. He sloshed it around teasingly.

"That is m-! Grr."

"Be careful," Alistair said. "That's probably the worst poison."

The assassin sputtered. "You, ser, how dare you insult my beloved homeland's greatest elixir?"

"I believe I can help, yes?" Leliana stretched a hand towards Bannon. He handed over the flask.

She opened it and took a cautious whiff. "Whew! It is certainly potent liquor. Though that can mask many a poison."

"Let's give it to him," the Templar said eagerly. "Then he can be passed out tonight in my tent."

"Drunken debauchery in Alistair's tent tonight! Wohoo!"

"No!"

Bannon rubbed his face and tried to ignore the escalating squabble. "Leliana, can you tell what all these things really are?"

"Oh yes," Zevran jumped in. "As an assassin herself, she is quite proficient with the tools of the trade."

Leliana gasped. Alistair said, "What?"

"Did you not know?" Zevran replied smoothly. "Bards in Orlais are assassins."

The Wardens both gaped at Leliana.

She flushed. "No, I'm not a bard. I- I'm a minstrel."

"Oh please, don't be modest, my dear," Zevran scoffed. "With your knowledge of poisons, of tying people up, weapons-play..."

"You lied to us?" Alistair yelled. "The Maker didn't send you! Who sent you? Was it Loghain?"

"No!" Her bright eyes pleaded. "I... yes, I was a bard in Orlais. But I left that life; I left that country. I came to Ferelden, my mother's homeland. I sought refuge in the Chantry. I sought peace. I pledged to do the work of the Maker."

Alistair ran a hand back over his damp hair. "Is there anyone here who _isn't_ lying to us?"

"Please," Leliana said, her eyes growing wet. "That is the truth. My vision is true; my mission from the Maker himself is to aid you in your struggles. I am loyal to the Grey Wardens, an enemy to the Blight."

"All right," Bannon said. "Alistair, calm down."

"Everything I have told you is true," Leliana insisted. "I have changed my vocation."

"That is against the Qun," Sten said, having been drawn nearer by the commotion.

"Qunari never change?" Bannon scoffed.

"No."

The elf tossed his hands up. "You can't ever change jobs? What if you find something more suitable to do?"

Sten shook his head. "The Tamassrans determine each child's strengths and assign them a vocation to which they are best suited. That cannot be changed..." Suddenly he looked off. "Unless one loses one's asala."

"A what?" Alistair asked.

"The asala is the symbol of the Qunari's spirit. The soul, you would call it in your tongue. To lose one... is to forfeit your life."

"That's not the change I was thinking of," Bannon said.

Agitated enough to drop the argument, Sten walked off.

"Bannon, please believe me," Leliana said. "I am here only to help you."

The elf rubbed his face, taking a moment to think. "I believe you," he said. He grimaced wryly. "But either way, it's not like we're picky." He shot the assassin - the other assassin - a glare. Zevran grinned. "At any rate, whatever it was you did before joining the Chantry, your skills are most valuable to us."

The worried creases on her face smoothed over, and a smile lit up her features. "Thank you, Bannon. Your faith means a great deal to me."

Bannon smiled back and determined to keep a closer eye on her. Perhaps she wasn't as crazy as she seemed - only very clever.

===#===

Sten took his turn washing up, then claimed first watch as usual. The others, except for Morrigan, spent some time around the campfire, playing Guess the Poison, cleaning armor and weapons. Bannon found a gnarled knot of wood and started carving it. Not with any design in mind, just to give his hands something to do. He had to admit, the familiar feel of metal shaving against wood did soothe him.

Then it was 'walkies' with the assassin, and a double-check of Bannon's retying of his bonds. Then Zevran was turned over to a trepidatious Alistair. The Antivan elf leered at his captor, making the Templar even more skittish. Bannon sighed. "Alistair, just tie him to the tent post."

"I'll be _really good_," the assassin said with sultry breathiness. "I promise."

"Gah! Leliana! Can't we gag him, too?"

"All night, while he is trying to sleep? Alistair, that would be cruel."

The knight looked tempted anyway. Zevran made big eyes at him and said, "You wouldn't do anything cruel and unusual to me, would you?"

"Uh..." Alistair got stuck on trying to figure out which answer to that wouldn't please the elf. Which was probably a hopeless cause. A smile spread slowly across Zevran's face. Alistair scowled. "All right you, _one_ more word, and I swear you will spend the entire night with a sock stuffed in your mouth!" Zevran's eyes went wide. Hell, Bannon and Leliana's eyes went wide, too. The Templar pointed towards his tent. "Now go to sleep!"

Slumped in defeat, Zevran trudged to the tent. Alistair followed, lifting the flap.

Bannon and Leliana looked at each other. "Didn't know he could do that," the elf murmured.

"People can do surprising things when under duress, yes?"

"I guess so."

===#===


	13. Burdens

Burdens

**Content:**

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama/Humor

Language: bad

Violence: none

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Notes:_

I have a fondness for dream imagery and nightmares. I bet you could tell.

* * *

><p><strong>Burdens<strong>

===#===

"A strong woman will be good for you." Cyrian smiled blandly and patted Bannon on the shoulder.

"Dad, I don't need-" Bannon tried to back away, but he was hemmed in by something. Cyrian slipped a bridle over his head. Mother Carson came up on Bannon's other side and helped his father fasten a harness around his chest. "But-!" Bannon's protests were in vain.

Nesiara appeared, beaming radiantly in her fine wedding dress. She tugged at Bannon's bridle until he was bent double, then she climbed up on his shoulder. "A fine husband," she said, sitting in a demure sidesaddle. "To support our family."

Bannon didn't have time to protest as more people crowded around him. Soris staggered up and laid a gallows frame across Bannon's back. The heavy timber pressed him down. He struggled to keep his balance.

"Help me!" Shianni cried. She was lying at his feet, her dress torn and bloodied. She reached up towards him. "Bannon, please, save me!"

"Shianni!" He moved to reach for her, but how could he lift her? People were piling more things on his back.

Alistair ran up. "I need you to take these cheeses-"

"Furniture for your new home," Cyrian said, lifting a newly-carved chair.

"-to Redcliffe-" Impossibly large wheels of cheese came out of the Templar's satchel. Alistair started stacking them on the chairs.

"You need to take this loot," said Leliana, producing a lute of solid gold, "to Orlais-"

"-to the Mages of the Circle-"

"-the Empress will help you, yes?"

"-to the dwarves of Orzammar-"

"You must be made presentable, with ribbons and bows-" Leliana started strewing him with frippery.

"A cradle, for the baby."

Bannon staggered. "I cant-!" With supreme effort, he managed to avoid falling to his knees.

Sten said, "You must keep the Qun in balance." He solemnly placed a thick book on Bannon's head.

"-to the Dalish-"

"-and these boots will never do-"

"What about our family?"

"Help me!"

"Get me out of prison!"

"-and save them all from the Blight."

"_I'm trying!_" Muscles screaming in protest, Bannon shuffled forward one step. Another. The piles on his back creaked and swayed. The Qun was sliding off his head, Shianni wouldn't move out of the way, and no one was helping him! They all stood back, watching. Nesiara kicked her heels impatiently against his chest.

Duncan strode forward, the crowd parting before him. "Is this what you've learned?" he sneered, bending to look Bannon in the face. "To make the Archdemon laugh itself to death?"

"I'm trying!" Bannon craned his head so the Qun fell against his right shoulder and wedged there precariously. "Help me! Where are the Grey Wardens?"

"You're it, you sniveling little knife-ears!" It was Vaughn's voice. Duncan's hair began to turn from raven black to ginger. "Ferelden is doomed because of you! And where's my rent?"

"Bannon, pay him," Nesiara cried in panic.

The beleaguered elf fumbled for his money pouch. Vaughn, having completed his transformation, snarled in contempt. He drew back his fist to hit Bannon's upturned jaw, and there was nothing Bannon could do to stop him.

Nothing, that is, that wouldn't cause him to drop something. So Bannon pitched himself forward and got to enjoy Vaughn's look of shocked surprise a split second before the whole huge pile crashed down on them both. Nesiara screamed as she went tumbling.

Bannon lay pinned under the crushing weight, struggling to move. Panic burned inside him, making his heart race. _Get up get up get up GET UP!_ With a roar, he pushed up on his arms and gathered his legs under himself. He heaved upwards again, toppling lumber and cheeses. Lips drawn back in a snarl, he looked for Vaughn. Nesiara stomped up to him. "What have you done? You've ruined our lives!" He lashed out and tore her face off. She spun to the ground.

Shianni stirred underfoot. "This is all your fault! Why didn't you protect me? Why didn't you save me?" With a growl, he swept her aside, sickle claws snatching her from the ground and flinging her away.

"You didn't save me, either, you selfish bastard!" Soris held the end of the rope around his neck and shook it angrily at Bannon.

Bannon lunged.

"You always took after your mother," his father said sadly. "Why couldn't you be a good boy?"

Bannon whirled and tore apart the old man, too. Rage burned inside him, building up heat. The scattered wood around him suddenly burst into flames. Bannon cast about, clawing and kicking aside debris, looking for his enemy, Vaughn.

All he saw were broken bodies. The area had become a battlefield. No, the alienage. The buildings were wrecked, bodies strewn everywhere. What had happened? His family, his friends, torn asunder. Who did this? Bannon stumbled a bit further. There was Duncan's body, soaked in blood. And Alistair, his chest torn open, his armor ripped apart like stiff paper.

The heat at his back grew, but no light came with it. Or, rather... something cast a huge shadow. Bannon froze, panting. He could sense the immense weight behind him, but he dared not turn around.

_FEED._

"No..." His voice trembled.

_NEED._

"...no..." His whole body shook. Heat seared his back.

_KILL._

He felt his claws - hands - flex. "N-no."

_THEN BURN!_

There was a roar, felt more than heard, a rushing of air, and of fire. It roiled over Bannon, stripping his flesh, crisping his skin. Bannon screamed. He clawed his way out of bedroll and tent and ran madly through the camp.

Alistair scrambled to his feet from where he sat on watch and grabbed the elf before he ran headlong into the fire. "Easy, whoa!" The Templar held onto the squirming elf.

"The cheeses! The cheeses are melting!" he screamed in panic. "The greyspawn cheeses!"

"Calm down!" Alistair grunted as the elf nearly pulled him off-balance. "You're not making sense!"

"Cheeses! Dark Warden cheeses! Treeses!"

"The Grey Warden treaties?"

"Are melting!" Bannon shook his head. "Burning!"

Gingerly, Alistair let him go. "All right; easy... easy." Bannon seemed to be getting ahold of himself. "You're awake now? That must've been one doozy of a nightmare. Did you see the Archdemon?"

Mutely, Bannon shook his head. He shivered. Alistair took him by the hand and led him to the tent. He ducked inside and nearly had a heart attack when the assassin said, "What is going on?"

"Gah! Just... nothing! Go back to sleep." Alistair dug up his satchel and brought it back outside to show Bannon the treaties. "There, see? Everything is all right." He patted the stricken elf on the arm. "We'll have a good laugh about this in the morning."

"Sure."

"You want me to stay up with you a bit?" Alistair bent his knees, trying to peer into the elf's face, but Bannon wouldn't meet his eyes.

"No. No, I'm all right." Bannon waved him off and turned away, rubbing his forehead.

"Are you really sure? Because I haven't been able to sleep very well," Alistair said. "There's an assassin in my tent."

"He's tied up."

"Well, yes. It's the 'what if he gets himself untied' part that worries me."

Bannon scratched his head, rumpling his hair. "All right, bring him out here. I'll watch him."

===#===

Bannon went to pull on his armor and weapon harness. Alistair thanked him profusely and went to fetch Zevran. He had to call Bannon for help a minute later, because he'd tied double knots and couldn't get them undone. Too weary to grumble, Bannon helped get the assassin and his bedroll out by the fire.

"Just go back to sleep," he growled at the talkative Antivan. He sat morosely staring at the flames, trying to forget the nightmare, trying to banish worries about his family, and the stench of charred flesh.

"You know," Zevran said, idling in his blankets, "you should sit with your back to the fire. Then it will not blind you to attackers sneaking in from the dark."

Bannon bit his lip. Damned know-it-all assassin. It made sense, though. He shifted position, but made sure to keep Zevran in sight.

"Tell me about your dream."

"Why?"

"Well, it's a little trick I have," Zevran said cheerily. "To retell a nightmare as a grand adventure, where you win in the end. Makes it much more pleasant, no?"

"Don't think so."

But the Antivan persisted. "Do I understand you had a nightmare about cheese?"

Bannon groaned and rubbed his face. There was no getting around it, so he told Zevran parts of the dream: Alistair giving him giant wheels of cheese, his father piling furniture on his back. "Then that bastard, Vaughn, showed up, laughing, and demanding rent money. I could barely move with this giant stack of stuff on my back, and when I didn't cough up the coins fast enough, Vaughn went to hit me." Bannon's mouth curved into a satisfied little smile. "That's when I said to hell with everything and dropped it all on him. You should've seen the look on his face just before he got squashed."

Zevran chuckled. "Remind me not to make you angry at me. You are quite vengeful. Not," he was quick to add, "that I have any intention of angering you. And it seems you hardly need my help in the matter of this nightmare, _mi patrone_."

Bannon's smile turned sour. "Yeah, well, then the Archdemon showed up and destroyed everything."

"Oh."

"Yeah." Bannon lowered his head, pressing his fingers that aching spot above his eyes. The cheerful assassin wasn't daunted for long, however. He wriggled to sit upright, cross-legged in his bedroll, while Bannon watched him warily.

"But you are a mighty Grey Warden, _si?_ You shall slay this Archdemon when you meet." Zevran grinned cockily. "Is what Grey Wardens do."

Bannon stared at him a moment. He decided sitting that way was a really bad idea for a guy who disdained pants in favor of a short leather kilt. And what in Thedas was he wearing underneath? Bannon squeezed his eyes shut. Maker, he didn't want to know. He looked off to the edge of camp, but kept the assassin in his field of vision- just in case. "Have you ever even seen an Archdemon?"

"Uh, no. It is a big demon, is it not?"

Bannon looked sidewise at him. "Have you ever seen a darkspawn?"

Zevran nodded. "_Si_. Several chased us in Lothering."

"Have you ever seen a dragon?"

"Hmm. Only in paintings."

"The Archdemon is a Tainted dragon," Bannon said, looking him in the eye. "Think really big. Really pissed off. And quite insane."

"Oh." Maybe that would finally shut him up. But oh no. That hope was in vain. "Well, I could slay such a thing."

Bannon snorted in disbelief. "You?"

"If I were a Grey Warden? Surely! And," Zevran continued, ignoring Bannon's further noises of incredulity, "since you defeated me, it follows that you can kill it easily. So you see? There is no cause for concern. This Archdemon should be having nightmares about you."

Bannon had to laugh, albeit dryly. This guy's ego knew no bounds. "All right, you win. Now go to sleep."

"I am not tired. Besides, two pairs of eyes on guard are better than one, no?" Zevran leaned forward. "We should go on patrol, around the edge of the camp." Bannon narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Or not, as you prefer," the assassin hastily added, seeing his look.

The Denerim elf gave it some thought. I seemed like a ploy- get him alone, out on the fringe of the camp, do away with him quietly. But if they kept a tight leash on the assassin all the time, he'd just keep waiting for the opportune moment to strike. If Bannon could give him the opportunity now - or at least appear to - while he was on guard against it... He could discover Zevran's true colours. Hopefully without dying. Something told him there was a major flaw in this plan, somewhere. His head was just still too muzzy to see it.

Perhaps a walk would help clear it. "Do me a favor, would you?" he asked, moving around behind Zevran to untie him.

"What is it, _mi patrone_?"

"When you turn on us, kill me first."

The ropes slipped free, and Zevran turned, looking at him in confusion. "I have no intention of killing any of you," he said. "I pledged my loyalty to you, did I not?"

"You were serious?"

The Antivan drew himself up indignantly. "Of course I was serious! Do you think I pledge my service to just-?"

"All right, all right," Bannon said, motioning for him to keep his voice down.

Zevran huffed and settled for seething in silence. That lasted all of two seconds. "Out of curiosity," he said, "why would you wish me to kill you first?"

"It's my fault you're here," Bannon said.

"Believe me, no one is more grateful than I."

Bannon gave him a look. "No one _is_ grateful," he pointed out. "If I made a mistake... If you kill me first, the others will have a chance to take you down, and continue with the mission."

"It means that much to you?" Zevran tilted his head, his amber eyes assessing Bannon.

The Denerim elf shrugged uncomfortably. Maybe this was a burden he couldn't put down. "I don't know," he said, looking away. "But it would be terribly embarrassing if I got any of the others killed by being royally stupid."

Zevran moved to face him squarely. Bannon could not escape his scrutiny as the assassin studied his features. "If it is of concern...," he said slowly, his voice low. "I am unarmed, without armor. You have your weapons." He held his hands out, slowly raising them away from his sides, palms forward. "You could dispatch me, here and now. Your... 'problem' would be solved."

Bannon clenched his teeth. He didn't like being baited like this, and he had a strong impulse to skewer the cocky elf just on principle. But he took a breath. "I'm not going to kill you for no reason," he growled.

"Ah well, you see?" Zevran relaxed and grinned. "Already you are much better than my previous employers. Why would I throw that away, hm? And go back to them?" He made a sour face. "No, no, _mi patrone_; you are stuck with me."

Bannon tried to suppress a groan. He dragged the assassin out on patrol. Zevran, of course, pestered him for a weapon. "It would make me marginally more useful to you, should we be attacked."

"I think it would be more meaningful if you threw yourself in front of my enemies with no hope of survival," Bannon countered.

"Hmm. Perhaps I will simply run back to camp, screaming, to raise the alarm?"

"Yeah... unless they think you killed me, and it's some kind of trick."

Zevran just sighed heavily, and Bannon counted that as a point in his favor.

===#===

The two elves walked the ragged edge of the camp, their steps naturally light as they subconsciously avoided making noise. The moon was full, but patches of clouds were moving in from the west.

Bannon wanted to learn more about the elf he'd let into their midst, but so far, that had proven difficult. It wasn't that Zevran didn't like to talk about himself - in fact he seemed to be his own favorite subject - but when asked specific questions, he deflected them, and when he spoke in general, it was always some self-aggrandizing bullshit. So he decided to try a different tack, to stick to more neutral subjects. "Tell me about Antiva."

"Ah, Antiva," Zevran sighed wistfully. "It is a tiny desert nation, clinging to the coast and the banks of the mighty Antiva River. A rich, golden prize surrounded by three nations - Rivain, Tevinter, and the Free Marches - all crouched over it like hungry lions. Did you know, Antiva does not have a standing army?" He chuckled. "The biggest organized military presence is actually the Crows."

"You don't have a royal guard?"

"_Si_, to be sure! But the royal family is quite large, with a great many branches- not all of them are allied to the same causes, you see. Most of the political power is wielded by the Merchant Princes. In Antiva," he explained, "one can acquire great wealth, and with that wealth, build one's own network of allies, and raise one's own small army of guards."

"So to become a nobleman in Antiva, you just need money?" Not that any city elf could amass that much wealth, but it sounded easier than being born into or marrying into a noble family.

"Well, not 'noble' in the purest sense of the term. But as powerful as one? _Si_. More powerful than many of the poorer noble houses."

"If Antiva is so rich, and there's no army... how is it they aren't conquered by these other nations?"

Zevran grinned brightly. "Ah, you see, our greatest enemies are our most powerful allies. Should any one of these Great Lions seek to stretch out a paw and snatch the golden prize, the other two would spring upon him and kill him." He demonstrated with a swipe of his arm, a toothy snarl, and a pantomime with claw-hooked fingers.

"Enemies as allies, huh?" Bannon mused. "Then it's not just you. All Antivans are crazy."

Zevran laughed. "Crazy like a crafty desert fox, my friend!"

"But what's it like living there?" Bannon pressed, closer to Zevran's home. "What city are you from?"

"I am from the capitol, Antiva City. It is a sparkling jewel built on the delta of the great Antiva River."

"Overlooking Antiva Sea?" Bannon asked dryly. "Whoever named this place didn't have much of an imagination."

"Tcha!" Zevran scolded him. "Antiva was founded ages ago by our first queen."

"Queen Antiva of Antiva, residing in Antiva City on the Antiva River, overlooking the Antiva Sea?"

Zevran slugged him in the arm. "If you were a powerful queen, you would no doubt name quite a bit of geography after yourself, too!" Bannon could only chuckle in response. Zevran continued. "At night, the sultry breeze wafts over the streets; lanterns are lit, twinkling like stars. Ah, and the festivals! A riot of colours! Music and revelry... laughter and sparkling wine..."

The bronze-skinned elf's face relaxed into a genuine smile. Perhaps Bannon's ploy was working, though it all sounded too good to be true. "What about the alienage?"

"Oh," Zevran said, coming back to the present. "We did not live in the alienage. My mother was a high-class whore, you see. We lived in the Southwest district, at the brothel, close to the marketplace."

"You've never lived in an alienage?"

"No. Of course, when the Crows bought me, they housed us in the warehouse district, near the tannery. The brothel was much nicer." A shadow passed over Zevran's features, but was quickly banished. "What about you? You are from Denerim, Ferelden's capitol, no? Is it not a bastion of your country's beauty and strength?"

Bannon snorted. "You've _been_ to Denerim. I'm from the alienage there. Trust me, it's no jewel and certainly not a bastion of anything, except maybe stench."

"Ah, well." Zevran shrugged, having to concede the point. "But in all honesty, Ferelden doesn't actually smell like wet dog."

"What?"

"Oh, _si_. That is what everyone who's ever traveled to Ferelden says. That the country smells like wet dog. They exaggerate. Truly."

"Well. Good to know." Bannon gave Zevran a narrow stare, wondering if the assassin were having him on. For his part, Zevran seemed to be biting the inside of his lips to prevent them from smirking. "What does Antiva smell like, then?"

"Ah, sweet orange blossoms." Zevran smiled.

Bannon narrowed his eyes further. "Except the tannery."

That knocked the smug look off the Antivan's face. "True. And the fish market. And... the slave market." His expression darkened again.

"They really have slaves in Antiva? I mean... that seems so 'ancient Tevinter.'" Bannon had a hard time picturing it. Slavery seemed like something out of the histories, or lurid tales.

"Oh, Antiva is much more enlightened than Tevinter," Zevran said sourly. "Tevinter has human slavery, as well as elves of course. In Antiva, only elven slavery is legal."

Bannon snorted in disgust. "Fucking shems."

"Tell me about it. Fat bastards, living off the labor of the 'lesser race.'" Zevran sneered. "If they ever had to do real work a day in their lives, they'd keel over dead."

The Denerim elf chuckled in agreement. "Hey, did you ever try to learn to speak Dalish?"

"Every city elf child tries to learn Dalish," Zevran said. "For that day when they will run away and join the wild elves, no? Ah, but then things come up and other pursuits catch your interest." He shrugged. "No one uses Dalish speech, so eventually you forget it. No?"

"Yeah, that's the truth," Bannon said. "But I do remember, when we worked down on the docks, we used to tell the shems..." He frowned, trying to remember. "Ah, '_matraen shallotte, ir din_.' We told them it was a respectful form of address to one's betters."

"What does it mean?"

"Eat shit and die."

Zevran burst out laughing. "Quiet!" Bannon shoved him. "You want to wake everybody up?"

The Antivan slapped a hand over his mouth, bent double to try to stifle his laughter. It took him a minute or two to regain his composure. "That is so funny! They thought you were greeting them with rspect, and you were telling them to eat shit?" He sniggered again. "How did you keep a straight face?"

Bannon grinned. "Oh, it's a talent we Denerim elves have."

"Tell me again, so I can learn to say it!"

"_Matraen shallotte, ir din_."

===#===

* * *

><p><em>End Notes:<em>

_Matraen shallotte, ir din_

- Before you go yelling this at people, you have to realize Bannon's translation is quite faulty. What do you expect from a kid sneaking a peek at the hahren's terribly scanty dictionary?

Matraen (changed from the Elvish Lexicon at Pandymic): to eat

Shallotte (made up by me and used by my Dalish elf): an exclamation without any actual literal meaning. just something to say when you are mad.

Ir (DA canon): with

Din (DA canon): not, isn't; or someone who has died.

- So literally, it means "To eat, an exclamation, with some dead guy."

.

.

_"Well, it's a little trick I have," Zevran said cheerily. "To retell a nightmare as a grand adventure, where you win in the end. Makes it much more pleasant, no?"_

- He stole that from me. Of course, in most of my dreams I'm kicking butt on nazis anyway...


	14. Two Swords

Two Swords

**Content:**

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama/Humor

Language: bad

Violence: yes

Nudity: none

Sex: Zevran keeps hoping, but no

Other: none

_Author's Notes:_

My brain came up with a poignant, dramatic scene to go here. Uh, which I pushed off in favor of chickens. And so our heroes' journey will be delayed another day. Since, you know, this is fanfic, and I don't actually have to throw any scenes out. :X

* * *

><p><strong>Two Swords<strong>

===#===

By morning it was raining. Breakfast was a miserable, soggy affair, but the Wardens insisted on heading out despite the weather. When asked why - a reasonable question - Bannon told Zevran there was a Blight spreading across their homeland and they were rather in a hurry to stop it.

"But Blights last decades," Zevran rationalized. "You need to pace yourselves. There is no need for us to continue into this unseasonable weather today."

Bannon just scoffed. "Unseasonable? It always rains in the spring."

"In Antiva, it only rains in the winter."

"That's funny," Alistair said. "Winter is the only time it doesn't rain here in Ferelden."

"How can it not rain in the rainy season?" Zevran asked incredulously. "What kind of backwards country-?"

"It's because we have snow."

"Snow?!"

"Ferelden isn't a desert," Bannon reminded him. "We have normal weather like rain and snow."

The assassin sighed. "Whereas my beautiful Antiva has warm, balmy weather year-round. It certainly beats your Ferelden in that department."

"And yet Ferelden wins, because we don't have slavery."

Zevran glared at the insufferable Denerim elf. Still, he followed Bannon as he went to procure some rain cloaks. Zevran took one eagerly, to protect his bowstring from getting wet, he said.

The rain pattered so noisily on the hood, it might have been wiser to just let his hair get soaked. There was some relief as they passed through a wooded section of the road, but after they had traversed the tunnel of trees, the rain came down with renewed vigor. They pressed on, not having much of a choice. Shortly, they spotted a farmstead and headed across the fields as thunder rumbled ominously in the distance.

Alistair halted. The others, heads bent against the rain, hurried past him. "Stop!" he called. "Something... something's not right."

"Like what?" the witch demanded.

Bannon came up alongside Alistair. He raised his head and squinted, peering around at the farmyard. Zevran blew out a loud breath of impatience. Then the two Wardens looked at each other. "It's the Taint," Bannon said. The Wardens pulled out their weapons, and the others followed suit more hesitantly, looking around.

"Where's it coming from?" Alistair said.

"Cows!" yelled Bannon.

And that was the most bizarre attack Zevran had heretofore ever had the misfortune to suffer. There were three cows in the field. They might have been black and white at one time, but now they were a sickly grey, mottled with fleshy crimson. What appeared to be shards of bone stuck out of their hides, from their ribs, shoulders, and hips. They charged the group, aiming for the Wardens. Zevran and the others scattered.

The Tainted cows were slow and clumsy, easily avoided, but they were big and bulky, and difficult to kill. Zevran mused that with _his_ bow - his long white yew - he might've been able to put a shaft through the heart of one of the beasts, but as it was, he had to settle for feathering their necks, and just generally pissing them off. Ah well, as long as he appeared to be helping with the cause, _si?_

The cows were at last messily dispatched. Was that the end of their troubles? Oh, no. "I sense some darkspawn," Bannon warned, looking about the field again.

"Where?" the qunari wanted to know.

The Wardens looked confused. "Here," Alistair said. "They're all around us."

"This field is empty! Just like your head," Morrigan growled.

There was another rumble of thunder, close enough to make the ground tremble. Alistair's eyes flew wide in realization. "They're tunneling under us!"

"Get to the farmhouse!" Bannon yelled. The group broke and ran, heading for the more defensible position.

Chunks of sod collapsed under Zevran's feet. He leapt clear and put on a burst of speed. He didn't want the darkspawn to catch him- he had no weapons to defend himself!

He made it to the porch and turned, putting an arrow to string. From that vantage, he picked at the ragged line of genlocks chasing the party.

Sten and Alistair turned in the yard to meet the attackers. Bannon and Leliana fell back to support their flanks. Morrigan joined Zevran on the porch. They were seriously outnumbered, and Zevran again cursed his lack of blades. He was a much more efficient killer with them. But the Wardens fought like demons, and the dead creatures began piling up.

Zevran moved forward to a better vantage. He spied a crude darkspawn sword lying in the dirt. If there were a bit of a lull in the chaotic battle, he might be able to dart in and snatch it. He picked off targets nearby, careful not to hit the bard or elf who moved swiftly through the melee.

Then came the moment he'd been waiting for. The darkspawn press seemed to melt back. Zevran ran forward, heedless of Alistair's warning shout. The mud of the yard shimmered and grew deeper, even more slick. His lead foot skimmed over the ground, unable to find purchase. Arms wheeling, he pitched over into the muck. Nearby, he heard Bannon cursing. "I _hate_ magic!" The other elf was on his knees, trying to get carefully to his feet. Zevran scrambled backwards, more eager to get out of the grease pit than to get upright.

A low crackling sound spread across the yard, and the mud froze solid. Bannon cursed again as his rain cape got stuck in the ice. Zevran tore loose his own cloak and yanked his legs free. He stood, shivering in the wet _and_ cold. He started to ready the bow, still his only weapon.

Before be could even grasp an arrow, a darkspawn suddenly appeared and sprang at Bannon's throat. Zevran didn't see where it came from. Just one instant it wasn't there, and the next it was. He got a fleeting impression of long, skinny limbs, dark skin, and sickle claws. Bannon screamed as it bore him down and bit at him, tearing his hood to shreds. It was blindingly fast. It reared back with a growl, claws raised.

Zevran took two steps without even thinking and kicked it hard in the face. It shrieked in indignation. _Then_ it occurred to Zevran that he had no weapon with which to fight this thing. He took a wild swing at it with the bow and yelled, "Give me a blade!"

Bannon tossed his long dagger up, and Zevran snatched it out of the air, too preoccupied to complain that it was the smaller weapon. Anything was an improvement! He dropped the bow and thrust the blade at the creature. It slashed at him, and he fought the impulse to jump back. Grease or ice, the footing was too chancy. He caught the creature's flashing claws on the blade, or more often his forearms. He backed until he found his cloak, then stood on that.

Meanwhile, Bannon cut at the darkspawn's belly and rolled out from under it. He tore free from the rest of his cloak and attacked again. He raked the creature's ribs. It shrieked in fury and leapt away from the two elves.

Just then, a fireball detonated nearby. Zevran blinked at the sudden light, but could only be grateful for the wave of warm air that blew out from it. Alistair and Sten were closer to the blast and cried out, but they remained standing. Alistair looked singed. The qunari looked peeved.

The ice melted away, and the mud returned to its normal consistency. Another wave of darkspawn flooded into the yard. Zevran fought at Bannon's side, determined not to let his patron get killed. No, that would not be good for Zevran's own health.

===#===

At last, all the darkspawn were felled. The Warden's group stood panting in the rain, bloodied, muddied, and wet to the core. "We could have avoided all this," Zevran complained, "if we had just stayed lounging around in our tents all day, as I suggested." Bannon shot him a glare as they headed towards the porch. Zevran bowed and held out the dagger, hilt first. "And what was that thing that attacked you?"

Bannon took his weapon back. "Never mind that, _where_ is it?" He looked back across the farmyard.

"You didn't kill it?" Alistair asked, also stopping.

"No. It disappeared when the fireball hit." Bannon described it to Alistair.

"Sounds like a shriek," the Templar said with a frown. "Very fast; very dangerous." He looked around again. "It must have run off."

"Must be smarter than your average darkspawn, too," Bannon griped. "I hope it isn't going for reinforcements. He came up the stairs to the porch, to where Morrigan was rationing out healing potions. "And what were you thinking?" he snapped at her. "Getting us stuck in that ice?"

She looked up at him coolly. "You have _no_ idea how flammable that grease is, do you?"

"Uh..."

"Is true," Zevran put in. "That fireball could have set the whole yard ablaze in an instant.

Bannon looked sheepish. "Oh. Uh. Good job. Thank you, Morrigan."

"That's better," the witch said, putting her potions away without offering the Wardens any.

Bannon escaped into the farmhouse. Unfortunately, they soon found it uninhabitable due to the farmers and their families having died from the Taint inside.

Alistair wanted the bodies burned, the Taint destroyed. Despite the friction earlier, Bannon was able to get Morrigan to agree. Alistair and Leliana prepared the bodies and said prayers and such frippery beforehand. Zevran didn't believe in bothering with such nonsense, so it fell to him and Sten to haul the darkspawn bodies in to be burned. And those damned cow carcasses.

At least the rain would keep the fire contained to the house. The barn was still intact, and the group made its way there. Zevran should not have laughed as a band of Tainted chickens attacked Alistair's shins. But honestly, between the Chantry-boy's unimaginative cursing, his ungainly dancing around, and the evil clucking, how could one resist? But that's why, Alistair claimed later, that the rooster went after Zevran.

The damned thing flapped down from the rafters, and its spurs cut into Zevran's cheeks and forehead before he managed to grab ahold of it and beat it to death against a beam. He took the corpse to the door and punted it all the way over to the burning pyre.

When he turned back around, the others were staring at him, biting their lips in a supreme effort at restraint. Zevran glowered. "This incident is not to be mentioned ever again!"

"Agreed!" Alistair said heartily. The others though... They dispersed quickly, their snickers and laughter echoing through the barn.

===#===

There were troughs for washing up. They couldn't risk a fire in the barn itself, but it had an attached stone room for slaughtering pigs and smoking ham. It made for a pleasantly hot drying room. The Wardens were too jumpy to enjoy it to the fullest, more the pity. The question came up whether to wait out the storm here, where that one escaped shriek could bring back more attackers; or to head out to the next farmstead that was likely nearby. Where, Zevran pointed out, the darkspawn could be lying in wait for them. Thankfully, they saw reason this time. Better to be attacked where they knew the layout and had prepared defenses. The Wardens' senses would alert them to any darkspawn approaching.

They took turns on patrol while the others rested. No one was idle, however. Zevran was busy cleaning muck from his leathers, and checking the bowstrings to make sure they dried properly and were not weakened - both 'his' and Bannon's bows. The Denerim elf had cheerfully dumped that task on him, along with his own muddied armor to clean. Zevran closed his teeth firmly, but did not actually grit or grind them. No, no; he was made of sterner stuff. There was a time and a place for everything. Even in the Crows, there were ways to get back at one's superiors. Safe ways...

===#===

"Hey, Alistair...!" Bannon waved the other Warden over to the side door, so he didn't have to go out in the rain to talk to the man on patrol. Alistair was mostly sticking close to the barn, under the eaves. "So, that darkspawn mage today...?"

"Oh, yes, good; I wanted to talk to you about that." Alistair flicked rain out of his hair.

"Did you try the Templar thing on it? And did it work?"

"Well, he wasn't close enough to smite. But I did try a small technique for cleansing an area of magic." His hazel eyes sparkled, but he reined in his exuberance. "Well, that was about the time the grease pit and the ice all melted and went away."

Bannon cocked his head and frowned. "Did you do that, or did it just wear out right then?"

"That's hard to say," the former Templar admitted. "But I think it's worth it to try again. Actually, maybe I should practice some more, when we stop for camp."

"Like...," Bannon ventured, "during the time we're usually making dinner?"

Alistair grinned. "Now you're catching on!"

===#===

The first patrol was uneventful. The elves' patrol was, too. Their leathers were clean by then, but could use a good oiling. Fortunately, Zevran had the right kind of oils in his kit. This time, Bannon worked on his own armor. He must've been bored.

"I notice you use a sword and dagger to fight," Zevran commented a while later. "You know, if you do some wrist-strengthening exercises, you could wield two swords." He sat back a little, head slightly tilted as he regarded Bannon.

The other elf just gave him a flat stare in return. After a minute he said, "Is this another lead-in to one of your lewd comments?"

"No!" Zevran looked aghast. "I am quite serious! I only wish to help my newfound comrade to improve his skills. Two swords are much more balanced. You will find, I believe, this will help you fight better."

Bannon got up and went to the pile of stuff where they kept the assassin's things. He pulled out Zevran's two blades. "Like these?"

"Those are mine."

The Denerim elf walked back with a sword in each hand, swinging them casually in a loose grip. "I believe the word you are searching for is 'were.'" Zevran curled his lip in a silent growl. "They _were_ yours, before you tried to kill me," Bannon said, needling him.

The Antivan elf sighed dramatically. "That again? How long are you going to hold that one little thing against me, hm?"

"Oh, let's see..." Bannon struck a thoughtful pose, relaxed with one hip cocked. "How about until I try to kill you, and fail? Then we can call it even."

The assassin plucked at a few strands of inoffensive hay and flicked them away in ire. He kept his voice level, though. "You know, technically, you already have. When I tried to kill you, you tried to kill me. And," he emphasized, "you failed. If Alistair hadn't been so gentle clobbering me with that- that-" he gestured in annoyance- "that oversized tin washboard-"

"Or your skull wasn't so thick," Bannon interjected.

"- then I would not be here now. No?"

Bannon shrugged. "You've got a point." He tossed the sword in his left hand to Zevran.

The move was so sudden, the assassin was caught off guard. He scrambled to catch it, but the point bit into the hard-packed floor before he got his hand wrapped around the hilt. Still, he was on his feet, the blade in his hand, in a trice. He'd jumped into a guard position, expecting Bannon to attack and try to kill him again.

Bannon just looked at him, the other sword still loose and dangling in his right hand. He made no threatening moves, but he was prepared should the assassin lunge at him. He quirked one brow.

Suppressing a sheepish look, Zevran stood up out of his ready stance and relaxed, lowering the sword.

"Show me these exercises," Bannon told him, gesturing towards the sword.

"Well, normally, I use both at once," the assassin said. "It is more balanced, as I mentioned."

"I need to strengthen my left hand, don't I?" Bannon countered. "Show me the left." He pointed with his chin this time.

Zevran narrowed his eyes a fraction, but with a slight shrug, he switched the sword to his left hand. "I'm sure you know how to swing a sword," he said, slowly rolling his wrist to trace a large circle with the blade. "The left is simply the same as the right, only a mirror opposite." He drew the blade across his body in a smooth figure-8. "Simple, no?"

"Turn around," Bannon told him, causing him to look up sharply. "So I can see from the other side."

Zevran turned his unprotected back to the Warden. He looked over his left shoulder as Bannon moved up behind him. "I don't want to accidentally stab you," the assassin said. "The others would take it in completely the wrong light."

"Heh." Switching the blade to his left hand, Bannon moved out a little, then mimicked the assassin's moves. For a few minutes, the two elves stood moving in unison, blades gleaming in the waning light.

Then, watching out of the corner of his eye, Zevran began to speed up the pace and vary the moves. The Denerim elf rose to the challenge, watching with hawk-like intensity. Faster the blades flashed, and Zevran started grinning. Wickedly, he added a few foot moves and weight shifts. Now it was more like fighting, and that damned elf just would not admit defeat.

Finally, panting a bit for breath, Zevran stopped and turned. He could not resist one more flashy move of spinning the sword hilt over the backs of his knuckles and catching it in a reverse grip. Bannon still watched intently, but didn't try to imitate the move. Zevran grinned more cockily. "We should spar," he said, still a bit flushed and breathless. "It would be most invigorating, I think."

"My companions definitely _would_ take that in the wrong light," Bannon said dryly. He held out his hand for the sword.

"Ah well." Zevran gave the sword a small toss upwards and deftly snatched the blade. With a respectful bow of his head, he proffered the hilt to Bannon. "Perhaps when they grow to trust me more, no?"

"I look forward to it," Bannon said, taking the weapon. The corner of his mouth curved in a smile.

Zevran's grin turned bloodthirsty. "I think you are not the only one." He flicked his eyes past Bannon, and the thief turned.

Leliana was there, watching them. Her cheeks flushed slightly at their scrutiny. Alistair had also just walked up behind her.

"What's going on?" he said, looking with concern between the two elves and the Chantry sister. He eyed the two swords with suspicion.

"Zevran was just showing me some techniques," Bannon said. He moved to put the blades away.

"You let him have a weapon?" Alistair asked, brow creased in worry.

"Look, Alistair; how are we going to find out if he can be trusted with a weapon, unless we give him a weapon?"

"Um...?"

Bannon nodded as if expecting that answer. "My point exactly." He sheathed the two swords. Alistair just sighed and went to take another turn on patrol.

Meanwhile, Zevran had approached Leliana. "See anything you desire, my dear?" he asked in his most seductive voice.

"I was simply admiring your technique," she replied levelly.

"Ah, yes - I am told it is _very_ good." He grinned even more. "And I know how difficult life can be in a Chantry cloister. Should you have any need to assuage your aesthetic urges, please do not hesitate to call on me." He swept a chivalrous bow. "I am at your service, lovely one."

"I shall keep that in mind," she said slowly. She turned away. "I should see to dinner preparations."

"I'm sure it will be delectable," Zevran said, mouth watering as he watched her go.

"Oh yeah, that's going to work," Bannon told him drolly.

"Shut up." Zevran puffed himself up. "I'll have you know, I have performed many such services to the sisters of the Chantry."

"Mm-hm."

Bannon didn't sound the slightest convinced, and Zevran shot him an evil look. As they headed to sort out bedrolls and sleeping arrangements, Zevran asked him, "So can I sleep with you tonight?"

Bannon heaved a put-upon sigh. "We'll see what the coin says." He lugged his bedroll towards one of the stalls. Suddenly, he stopped, slapping a hand to his face. He turned back. "In any case," he clarified, "not in _that_ sense!"

Zevran laughed. "I almost had you, there!"

===#===

Dinner was vegetable soup. Again. Zevran lamented the lack of roast chicken. That got Alistair all ruffled up. "I thought we were never mentioning _that_ again!"

"I wasn't mentioning _that!_ I was mentioning perfectly normal roasted chickens!"

Afterwards, it was 'walkies' once more, with the vast luxury and privacy of a proper outhouse. It was far enough away from the farmhouse that it did not burn. Then Bannon won (if you asked Zevran) or lost (if you asked Bannon or Alistair) the coin toss again. The assassin was secured to the wall in the Warden's stall.

Bannon sat cross-legged on his bedroll, turning the knot of wood over in his hands. It was starting to take form. After looking it over with a critical eye, he took out his carving knife and began carefully whittling.

Zevran sat on his own bedroll, leaning against the back wall, watching in boredom. It was his own fault - he could be entertaining himself with washing up the dishes, but he'd once again threatened to coat them all with poison. So now he was stuck, tied up with nothing to do.

"Back in the Crows, being their very best assassin as I was...," Zevran began.

"Mm," Bannon replied unencouragingly, his attention on his work.

"I was accorded great luxury and ease."

"I thought you were a slave."

Zevran huffed slightly at the reminder. "A very pampered slave, as I believe I mentioned. Whores, drink, fine foods. Never did I have to, say, wash dishes."

Bannon raised his head and turned. "Who did all that while you were chasing after us from Denerim?"

"Ah, well," the assassin admitted; "mostly the mercenaries."

"What's your point?" Bannon went back to whittling.

"My point is, that once free of the Crows, I expected to be free of slavery as well. After all," his voice hardened to a point; "you do not have slavery in Ferelden. Or so I am told."

"You're not a slave," Bannon insisted.

"Then who is expected to clean up that mess you are making there?"

Bannon frowned, then looked down at the wood shavings littering his blanket. He twisted to look back at Zevran. He was very handy for digging latrines, striking tents, cleaning armor, and... oh. Bannon snorted. "It's my bedroll, I will," he said, as if that had been his obvious plan all along. It wasn't as if he'd threatened to kill the guy unless Zevran did what he told him to. It was Zevran's idea to pledge his service and all that. "Everybody in the camp pitches in for chores," he explained further. "I thought you'd be eager to prove how loyal you are to the group by being helpful. It's not my fault you've disqualified yourself from all the easy jobs."

The only reply was a muttering growl.

===#===

* * *

><p><em>End Notes:<em>

_Alistair: "Sounds like a shriek. Very fast; very dangerous."_

-And they enjoy pod-racing, as well. :X

===#===

**Outtakes:**

_Bannon: ::in a mysterious, spooky voice:: "The Cows are Not What they Seem."_

-1000 Bloodsong points if you recognize that quote!

_Zevran: "Madre de Dios! Es el Pollo Diablo!"_

-I can't hand out Bloodsong points for this one, because I never actually played it.

-The demon chickens were also in hommage to Terry Goodkind, who set out to prove that in the hands of a very powerful writer, even chickens can be scary, demonic-seeming creatures. Um, I could have done that, too, if I had taken the time. :X

===#===

**Answers:**

"The Cows are Not What they Seem." Launchpad McQuack in the Darkwing Duck episode "Twin Beaks."

El Pollo Diablo is from Lucas Arts' Monkey Island game series.

===#===


	15. The Assassin's Way

The Assassin's Way

**Content:**

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama/Humor

Language: bad

Violence: yes

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: children are slain

_Author's Notes:_

They *were* going to have gotten to the Tower by now... my brain had other ideas, though. Actually, I think this section came out pretty cool.

Not to be confused with the 'Way of the Assassin' in Assassin's Creed. Special props to King Diamond! \../,

* * *

><p><strong>The Assassin's Way<strong>

===#===

The shriek plagued them with its cries all night. It never moved in close enough for the Wardens to get a strong sense of it; it never stayed still. Its scream could rip out of the night at any time, from any direction. The companions slept fitfully, if at all.

Exhaustion weakened them, and two hours of silence before dawn lulled them. That's why they were slow to react when Leliana was attacked on her trip to the outhouse. The beast knocked her down, savaged one arm, but leapt away when the others ran out. It fled into the misty morn.

Alistair scooped Leliana up and carried her to the smokehouse. "We need water!" he called out. "Hot water! Build up the fire!"

"I'm all right," Leliana insisted. "I can walk. It only bit me in the arm, Alistair."

"There's darkspawn blood all over you."

"Yes, I managed to hit it with my belt knife."

Bannon brought over bandages, but Alistair set them aside. "We need more water; we have to clean this wound." He held Leliana's arm down, despite her protests, and poured a mug full of water over the bites. "I don't think it was trying to kill you," he told her. "I think it tried to infect you with the Taint." Her eyes flashed wide and she went pale. She stopped protesting his ministrations.

Bannon said, "We need to be careful, this thing isn't the same stupid as the other darkspawn. Stick together. Don't go anywhere alone."

"I agree," said the assassin from the doorway. Bannon nearly bit his tongue off in surprise. Zevran continued, oblivious to the tense reactions his sudden appearance caused in the group. "This creature, it is behaving most like an assassin. Studying its targets, striking at the weakest point - no offense to your fighting skills, my dear."

Leliana nodded, tight-lipped. Alistair turned and scowled at the assassin. "I thought you were tied up."

"It's all right, Alistair," Bannon cut in, seeing Zevran's grin. "I untied him."

"And gave him weapons?" Those, too, were obvious, sheathed in the assassin's weapon harness.

"Yes."

"Well, you weren't watching him very well."

"Sorry." Bannon moved past he others, pushing Zevran back into the barn. "We'll go check for tracks near the outhouse. Morrigan, can you please take Sten to the well for more water?" He didn't wait for the witch's acknowledgement. He dragged Zevran towards the main doors. "What do you think you're doing?" he hissed.

"I was not joking when I said this shriek is working like an assassin. And, its most likely next target would be the one left alone, unguarded, tied up, and helpless."

Bannon winced. "Sorry."

Zevran merely shrugged. "You left me unguarded, and the knot was in reach of my hands. It took little effort to untie myself."

"And what are you trying to do? Get me in trouble?"

"You? You're far too quick for that." Bannon grimaced, and Zevran grinned. "Good choice, deciding to give me back my weapons."

"Shut up!" Bannon pushed the barn door open and slipped out. He drew his sword and dagger. Zevran, who had followed him, danced back several paces, out of reach of the blades. Bannon frowned at him. "I'm not going to attack you."

"I don't know you that well." The assassin pulled out his own swords. "Do you sense this shriek?"

"I don't know you that well, either," Bannon countered, narrowing his eyes at the long blades. "But this thing doesn't care whose side we're on, it wants to kill us all." He looked off past the smoking rubble of the farmhouse, feeling uneasy about taking his eye off the elf who was contracted to kill him. It _might_ be true he'd changed sides, but his escape act this morning left Bannon feeling uneasy about trusting him. Nevertheless, Zevran was definitely interested in self-preservation, and that would have to do for now. "No," he said, focusing on the problem at hand; "I don't sense him." He didn't let his guard down, though. Not the way that thing had jumped him in the fight yesterday.

He gave a jerk of his head to beckon Zevran along and started on the path to the outhouse. The assassin moved behind him, out to the left, his attention also on their environs, searching for sight or sound of the shriek.

They made it to the outhouse. There wasn't much in the mud; a few splashes of blood, an imprint of a triple-tined claw.

Then they heard the scream. Both elves jumped, tensing to fight, but the sound was distant - away past the other side of the farmstead.

"Well," said Zevran, relaxing first, "this is good. And here we are safely at the outhouse." He moved to the door of the little shack.

"You're sure there's only one of them?" Bannon asked, stopping him in his tracks.

Zevran pursed his lips. "The time and distance between the calls last night was never impossible for one creature to manage." His brows furrowed. "Unless they were working in tandem, to hide their numbers. Do darkspawn do that?"

"Duncan told me they're not stupid, just insane." Bannon turned his back to the outhouse, scanning the nearby treeline. "I still don't sense anything."

"Well, good. You keep watch, then." Zevran sheathed his weapons and disappeared inside the little building.

"You couldn't just go against the side of the barn?" Bannon griped.

"To be sure," Zevran's muffled voice replied. "But I prefer a civilized, comfortable, and quite cozy private facility."

"You _are_ a pampered slave."

"I _was_ a pampered slave," the Antivan bit back, his accent hissing on the sibilants. "Now I'm stuck here with you." Bannon shot the outhouse door a glare. "Perhaps you can sing, so I know you are still out there, and haven't been waylaid by this darkspawn assassin."

"I don't sing. And maybe you can shut up, so I can listen for it sneaking up on me."

The assassin took his sweet time. He came out looking quite refreshed. Not one to waste any opportunity, Bannon took a turn while Zevran bickered.

"If I do get attacked, will you spring forth to save me?"

"Sure."

"Without even pausing to pull up your pants? My life could depend on it, you know."

"Your life might have a problem, then," Bannon grumbled.

"This is yet another reason I prefer a kilt!"

"Shut up and stand guard!" Maker's Breath, this guy could argue from sunup to sunset!

===#===

The group swiftly prepared to leave. Leliana was pale, but her wound was cleansed to Alistair's satisfaction. Morrigan direly warned that they were completely out of healing potions, and unless they found a crop of un-Tainted elfroot, they were going to remain that way. Leliana readied her crossbow, her arm too injured to swing a sword. "I can still fight," she declared.

Alistair took Bannon and his shadow, Zevran, aside. "Make sure you stick close to the women. This thing might go after them again, especially now that they're more vulnerable." He took the opportunity to give the assassin a pointed stare.

"Actually," Zevran said, "we should take the lead, while you and Sten guard the ladies. Don't you agree, _mi patrone?_"

Bannon tapped his lip in thought. The assassin smoothly continued explaining his strategy. "Since we are dealing with a stealthy foe- something, I remind you, with which I am intimately familiar- is why you brought me along, no? So, we must expect traps. We elves will scout ahead, the better to espy any faint, subtle traces that indicate such traps."

Alistair eyed the assassin with thinly-veiled suspicion, his gaze resting on the two sword hilts protruding over Zevran's shoulders. He looked at Bannon and said bluntly, "Are you sure now is a good time to trust this guy?"

"This damned shriek thing is going to kill us all," Bannon said. "If he kills us now, there goes his shot at getting his money, or his wine, women, and song; or whatever it is he gets out of it."

"Is true," Zevran agreed quickly with a smile. Bannon had to wonder what he sounded like when he lied, because when he told the truth it sounded as insincere as all the other bullshit he was always spouting.

Alistair didn't look happy about it, but he kept his mouth shut. Bannon said, "Zevran and I will keep an eye out for these traps, and a lookout for this darkspawn. You and Sten will be stronger protection for Leliana and Morrigan, anyway."

"All right."

===#===

The morning was damp and misty, and utterly silent. They'd managed to salvage Zevran's rain cape, though it was heavily stained. Bannon's was a lost cause, shredded and ripped. The assassin felt smug with himself, another triumph over the thief, until it started raining. He couldn't put his hood up; he didn't want to cut off any field of vision, nor muffle any sounds. That, coupled with how he'd lowered the neck of the cape to leave his sword hilts free, meant that the chilly rain soaked his hair and spilled down his neck. He might as well not have bothered with the damned thing. Actually, the contrast between his dry arms and wet neck probably made the discomfort worse.

The road led northwest; it was rutted by wagon wheels and, of course, muddy. The shriek kept silent, no doubt to unnerve them, a feeling Zevran determinedly shrugged off. Several times. The Wardens were jumpy as well.

The road dipped down into a hilly woodland. The elves rounded a bend and came to a halt. A pile of logs and boulders lay stacked on the road at the narrowest point between two ridges. They didn't appear to have naturally fallen there. Bannon and Zevran shared a look.

The others caught up with them momentarily. "Oh look," said Alistair; "This must be one of those faint, subtle signs that says 'Hello! I am a trap!'" Zevran shot him a flat look. The human Warden shot it right back.

"Clearly, we are meant to take that footpath around the copse," Morrigan said disdainfully.

"Clearly," Bannon said, "we're not doing that." He looked up at the rubble. "Anyone fancy a climb?"

"Can we not confront this creature and be done with it?" Sten asked.

"Go _into_ a trap?" Alistair asked.

"It worked well for you last time, no?" Zevran quirked a grin at the human.

Bannon said, "Are you advocating going into this trap?"

"If we wish to destroy this creature? Then yes. Going into a trap with eyes wide open is almost as good as avoiding it."

"Did you forget," the witch asked, "that we have exactly zero healing magic? Need I remind everyone how many potions we needed after the last trap we were in?" Here, she gave Zevran a poisonous look.

"What if," Alistair said, "the trap is that it's so obviously a trap that we go into the trap while trying to avoid the trap?"

Zevran stared at him. "Try not to strain yourself thinking."

Bannon rubbed his face. "It depends on how smart this thing really is. Leliana, what do you think?"

"I would definitely prefer to avoid fighting," she said. "Yet also I fear injury if we try climbing. If we become fatigued and scattered, we shall be less effective if we end up having to fight anyway, yes?"

"This thing could be anywhere - hell, it could be sitting between these two routes waiting for us to pick one. I think we need a third option."

"Like what?" Alistair asked him.

Bannon shrugged. "Instead of turning left or going straight, how about we turn right?"

===#===

Bannon led them back along the road, past the head of the footpath, to the spot where the hills started to rumple the ground. It was no trick at all to walk up the gentle slope here. All they had to do was keep heading west, he assured his companions. They had to wend their way through the trees and around dense clumps of underbrush.

Easy enough for a woodsman, with the sun clearly showing the proper direction. For a city elf under heavily-clouded skies, not so much. At least there wasn't any sign or sound of that shriek. He'd probably lost it, as much as he'd lost the rest of them.

Then he saw another rise ahead, and a glimpse of lighter sky beyond. He could get up there and get the lay of the land. Maybe ask that blasted witch which way was West. If he were lucky, he'd spot a Chantry belfry or the roofs of some town. Or that mage tower. Weren't they supposed to be close to there by now?

The slope was littered with fallen sticks and old, wet leaves that cracked and crunched under his boots. The tree line was so close, but he couldn't see past the ridge until he got up on the edge.

"Do you know where you are going?" Zevran asked, moving up at Bannon's left shoulder.

"Of course I know where-"

_CRACK!_

Bannon's foot broke through a thin layer of leaves, followed closely by the rest of him, as it turned out there wasn't actually any ground under the litter. Branches snapped, and he hit a muddy slope, then tumbled down. His only consolation was that the assassin had fallen right behind him.

Zevran rolled and sprang to his feet, drawing his swords. Bannon staggered upright, pulled out his own weapons, and looked around.

"Are you two all right?" Alistair's voice called down.

"'Tis alright if the answer for Zevran is 'no,'" Morrigan added.

"We're fine," Bannon called back. He spat out a dead, wet leaf. More clung to his armor in haphazard patches, Zevran's too. "Get down here; I think this might be a path through the hills."

"Uh...," came Alistair's voice.

"We're not using the route you took," Morrigan supplied.

"Well, find something!" Bannon lowered his voice. "Shems, I swear."

Zevran snickered. "This, of course, was all part of your brilliant plan, no?"

Bannon swiped at the leaves plastered to him. Some fell off, but more just shifted around. "At last, you're starting to realized my true genius."

"Pfft! We should scout around a bit; it will take them forever to find a way down."

"Yeah... And why is the sky so bright, here?"

===#===

They managed to regroup without any broken or sprained limbs. They headed in what was hopefully a southwestern direction to try to reconnect with the road. And the stuff making the sky so bright? Spider webs.

The giant spiders descended from above. They were dark, mottled with lighter patterns of green and brown, and not so giant as to swallow a house. They were about the size of a donkey, but lower to the ground, much leggier, and much faster.

As the first three descended on the group, Zevran whipped out his swords with a grin. "Shall we compete for points?"

"All right, I'm game!" Bannon leapt at the lead spider before it got all its legs on the ground. He drove his sword through the hard chitin behind its head. Then he jumped aside as it turned on him, and he slashed at the forelegs. Zevran had a clear shot at its exposed abdomen. Gooey ichor splashed the ground, and the beast squealed as it collapsed.

Bannon whirled quickly to the next spider. More were dropping out of the trees, but he didn't care. They were big and stupid, not Tainted, and beating the green glop out of them improved his mood immensely.

As the spider turned towards him, he saw Zevran out of the corner of his eye, darting in to strike at it. Bannon danced back, waiting a moment while the spider turned to this new threat. And when it did, he slammed his sword into its flank.

Bannon spied the one Zevran was battling now and circled around it. The two elves continued weaving curved paths through the battle, changing dance partners, pulling attackers off each other, exploiting openings that were created. Spiders squealed and died. This was more fun than tossing little house spiders into the fire!

The elves moved quickly, trying to score the most kills. In a few brief minutes, they'd run out of spiders. They stood, huffing for breath, and looked back. A trail of spider corpses led back to their companions. The shems stared, gaping. Bannon's grin notched up. "Well, come on," he told them. Zevran laughed as they turned to continue down the path.

"That was five for me," the assassin said. He wiped his blades on his rain cloak. Why not? It was ruined already.

"That was four for you. I had five." Bannon helped himself to a corner of the cloak. Zevran jerked it back, but Bannon tightened his grip and managed to keep ahold of it long enough to finish cleaning his weapons.

"I killed that big one."

"You stabbed it after I killed it."

"No, it was not dead when _I_ killed it," Zevran insisted.

"It was dead enough after _I_ killed it. Twitching its legs after it's dead doesn't count as alive."

"A coup de grace is a valid kill!"

"Oh, fine!" Bannon tossed up his hands. "You had four and a half, then."

"Well, if I had four and a half, you certainly did not have five!"

"Guys!" Alistair broke in. The others had caught up with them. "Stop arguing!"

Bannon and Zevran looked back at the Templar. They shrugged and moved to scout ahead once more.

"Boy, shems really know how to kill a good time," Bannon muttered. Zevran grunted in agreement.

===#===

"There! There! _There!_"

"Alistair," Morrigan growled, "yelling 'there' and pointing is no help whatsoever!"

The small group was arrayed across the narrow path in battle formation, weapons out, tensed for the attack. The attack that so far had not been forthcoming. The Wardens had sensed the shriek's rapid approach, warned their companions.

"Shut up," Zevran snarled, "and let us listen for its movement."

That proved fruitless as well. The forest was eerily silent. Alistair's eyes darted, trying in vain to penetrate the thick brush. Bannon had his bow half-drawn, straining for a glimpse of the damned thing. He wished he could pinpoint the shriek's location and kill it in one blind shot, but his Warden senses didn't work like that. There was only a flowing wave of uneasiness, vaguely attuned to one direction. "We can't stand here all day," he muttered.

"Then you are not well-disciplined warriors," said Sten. The qunari stood solid as a rock. Maybe that's why they were grey, they were part stone.

"If we retreat," said Leliana, "it will surely spring upon us."

"That might actually be useful," Zevran said. "At least then it will be in range of our blades." He had opted not to use his bow.

Bannon said, "We should move in there and try to fight it."

"No," Sten said sharply.

"I concur," Zevran added. "We would be split up, scattered among the thick trees. An assassin would love that."

"Then we're back to standing here all-" Bannon raised the yew bow and drew back the arrow. The others tensed at the Wardens' agitation.

But again, the damned thing did not attack. It didn't even let out its trademark screech. It moved about and then... just seemed to melt away. The strong feeling of _wrongness_ faded, but Bannon still felt uneasy. "Alistair?"

"I think it's moved off."

"You 'think'?" Morrigan repeated.

"Well, it's rather like smelling something," the Templar tried to explain. "It doesn't just stop, it... lingers. It could be hovering just outside of our range to sense it. Or maybe it's trying to circle around."

"Either way," said Leliana, "it is an opportune time to move, yes?"

"Yet not a good time to drop our guard," Zevran added.

Bannon slowly released tension on the bowstring. "All right: Morrigan, Leliana, start moving out. Keep your weapons ready. Zevran, scout ahead. Sten, guard the center. Alistair and I will guard the rear."

The group moved out in ragged formation, while the two Wardens strained themselves for any clue what their enemy might be doing, or thinking. Slowly, Alistair and Bannon followed the rest. After moving on a while, they relaxed a notch or two. Not completely, as they were sure as soon on they let their guard down, the thing would jump them.

"You let Zevran go first?" Alistair said hesitantly. "By himself." Not quite accusingly.

"If there's any trap or ambush up ahead, he'll be the first one in it."

"Ah." The Templar actually brightened at that prospect.

"You really don't trust him?"

"Not one bit." Alistair shot him a sidewise look. "You don't, do you? He's just waiting for us to drop our guard."

"No...," Bannon said slowly. Though Zevran _had_ saved him from the shriek. He hadn't even been properly armed - in fact, he shouldn't have been close enough to do anything at all. But if he had been sneaking up to do Bannon in, why had he kicked the shriek in the face? Bannon shook his head. "I trust him to want to stay alive. Against darkspawn, that means he's with us."

"So... the only time we're not in danger from him is when we're in worse danger from everything else?"

Bannon grinned darkly. "There, see? We've got nothing to worry about from him!" Ah, the advantages of leading the charmed life of the last of the Grey Wardens.

===#===

They reached the next farmstead sometime in the afternoon. The companion's nerves were so strung out by the harrying of their invisible stalker, that even Sten seemed twitchy. They were tired and hungry, but they stopped at the farmstead gate. They looked across the yard with forboding, waiting to hear the assessment from the Wardens.

"Oh hell," said Alistair. With a shaking hand, he unlatched the gate.

"We could simply go around," Zevran said, his voice flat in the heavy air.

"We have to...," Alistair said quietly. He swallowed. "If there's any chance that someone hid... survived..." He gripped his sword. All of them had their weapons out- they hadn't bothered sheathing them, with the shriek's threat always imminent. His shield was too heavy to carry all day, so he left it on his back.

Bannon moved up silently on his left, and they went up the path to the farmhouse. It didn't take a Warden's senses to pick up the Taint. The smell of rotting meat rolled across the yard. At least there weren't any mad cows to attack them. There were several large lumps scattered around the yard, wet, maroon pieces crawling with flies. They'd apparently donated some bones to the six darkspawn totems that stood guard before the porch. Cattle bones, cow skulls... most of them, anyway.

Alistair focused on the door. It hung slightly ajar. The Taint emanated from inside so strongly, it was almost a physical force. He pushed ahead, inside to the common room.

There were bodies here, slumped over the table, spilling from the chairs. They were blessedly still.

The others filed in behind him, spreading out, except for Sten. Leliana moved to the hearth, where a huddle of small bodies lay, gathered around their fallen mother. A soft whimpering sound made Alistair freeze.

Leliana put her crossbow down on the table and hurried forward. "Here, child. Oh, you poor thing." She reached for the small girl crouched near the bodies. The child whipped around and snarled. Leliana reared back with a cry. The girl's face was barely human, her gums blackened, her teeth thinned to needles. Her dead grey eyes flicked from Leliana to Alistair.

Her eyes widened, her face went lax, transforming from beast back to a ghost of herself. Alistair stood rooted to the spot as the girl moved towards him. She recognized him, or rather, the Taint within him. Her soulless eyes seemed to fill with hope, with longing. She lifted her arms out to him, a silent plea.

Hesitantly, not sure why be was doing this, he reached down with his left arm. He circled it around the child and lifted her. She clung to him, wrapping arms and legs around his torso. He wasn't sure for a split-second that she wasn't going to rip out his throat. But she pillowed her head against the cold plate of his chest armor.

Alistair swallowed thickly. He could feel her small body against his, not from body heat, but from the Taint. She recognized him as a kindred spirit. His vision blurred. Maker, the child had to die. But he was at a loss. How? How could he do it without hurting her? His right arm hung lax at his side, sword pointing down.

===#===

Bannon saw his fellow Warden go pasty white. He, too, knew what had to be done, but... it was just a little girl, not some ravening monster.

Everyone remained frozen, trying in shock to process the tableau. Bannon edged back until he nearly bumped into Zevran. "You're an assassin," he said low; "You know how to kill someone quick and painless?"

"_Si_." Zevran kept his voice low as well.

Bannon jerked his head, indicating for him to go do it. Zevran carefully sheathed his weapons and walked over to the Templar. Alistair turned, eyeing him warily.

"Is all right," the elf said softly. "Just hold her." He reached out and stroked the girl's hair, murmuring gentle assurances. He touched her cheek as she looked up to Alistair. A moment later there was a muffled crack as the assassin twisted her neck. Alistair made a hurt animal sound in his throat. He clutched the body close to his chest.

Another mewling growl drew the attention of the others down to the hearth again. The infant at the farmwife's breast was... feeding. Leliana gasped and turned away. Zevran moved forward, but the witch was closer. She grasped the tiny Tainted boy in her hands, intending to wring its neck. But the thing twisted and sank its fangs into her hand. With a cry of shock, she dropped it.

Zevran's hand shot out and drew the knife from Morrigan's belt. He knelt and gripped the child's head, pinning it face down. He raised the blade and brought it down sharply, piercing the infant skull with a wet crack. The body went limp.

Zevran stood and offered the knife back to the witch. She refused it and turned away. She stalked out the door, face pale, raising her injured fingers to her lips.

Bannon ran after her and grabbed her arm. She glared at him like a riled cat. "It's Tainted," he warned her. He pulled her down the steps, towards the well. "Sten!" he called. The giant followed them. "Keep watch," Bannon told the qunari, and Sten moved a few feet away, scanning for enemies.

Bannon grabbed the handle and started winching the bucket up from the well. He hoped the water hadn't been somehow Tainted. Morrigan waited, still and silent, clutching her wrist, blood oozing from the bite. Her face was hard, shuttered against any emotion, but whiter than Bannon had ever seen it.

He said nothing, but pulled the bucket over. It brimmed with water, fresh and clear. He carefully poured it over the bite wound. All of it, which took a minute or two. The cold water slowed the blood flow and leeched colour from Morrigan's skin.

"Keep an eye on that," he told her. He noticed the gooseflesh prickling her skin. He rubbed her arm briefly, hoping he didn't lose a limb for his trouble.

The contact seemed to steady her. "I hate children," she said, her voice a bit uneven.

"Yeah, I know what you mean," he replied, keeping his voice neutral. He let the bucket drop back into the well. "You think it's safe to light this one up?" he asked, nodding at the farmhouse.

Morrigan turned back to look it over. "The barn is a bit close," she said. That will likely go up as well. There is no wind, so I doubt it will jump to those trees. The ground is soaked; it should be fine."

"Whenever you're ready," Bannon said.

"I'm fine." The witch headed back to the house.

Bannon called to Sten and followed.

===#===

The shriek didn't attack. Bannon didn't know why. Alistair and Leliana were still in shock over the Tainted children. Bannon kept Sten and Zevran on their toes, and tried not to think about the Taint. The shriek was more likely to kill them; he had to focus on that. Perhaps the shriek was waiting for them to become more scattered. Or perhaps it hated and feared fire. They'd left the farmstead before the house had been engulfed, but the smell of smoke followed them.

===#===

"Do you often kill innocents?" Alistair said darkly to the assassin.

"Innocents?" Zevran shrugged it off carelessly. "There are no innocents. Everyone is guilty of something."

"What could those children possibly have been guilty of?" Alistair's voice was filled with sorrow, and a trace of anger.

"You'd be surprised what children are capable of," Zevran muttered, but he didn't confront the knight about it. He dropped back a few paces to walk beside Alistair. "You mean, do I kill those I am not contracted to? Unarmed bystanders, children, family members, and the like?" He shrugged again, ignoring Alistair's fierce scowl. "It happens."

"And you don't care?"

"Everyone dies, Alistair. If not by my hand, then something else, no? Disease, accident, old age, a fall down the stairs... What difference does it make?"

Alistair rounded on the elf, halting the group's progress. "You're nothing but a heartless, cold-blooded murderer!"

Zevran bristled up at the taller human. "Murderers," he said in a tightly-controlled voice, "are amateurs." He met the man's accusing glare without flinching. "And is it so much better to kill random people in hot blood?" He moved to push past the Warden-Templar, but Alistair tensed, his hands balling into fists. Zevran's instincts screamed at him to attack the shem - if Bannon hadn't confiscated the witch's knife - _No!_ He couldn't kill the Wardens. Not now!

Before the situation exploded, Bannon interposed his body between them, facing Alistair. "Hey!" The Templar wavered, but wouldn't strike his fellow Warden.

"What did you want?" Zevran sneered. "To run them through with your sword? To leave them to die of the Taint, slowly? Eating th-?"

"Shut up, you son of a -!"

"_Alistair!_" Bannon yelled. "That's enough! I told him to do it, to do it quickly so they wouldn't suffer."

The Templar crumbled; he put his face in his hands. "We couldn't save them," he sobbed. "What use are we?"

"Pull yourself together," Bannon told him firmly, but more gently. "That shriek is still out there, stalking us." He shot a scathing look over his shoulder at Zevran. "We're going to scout ahead again." Before the assassin could open his mouth, Bannon grabbed him by the arm and dragged him off.

"Death is not always unwelcome," Zevran insisted.

"Shut up."

The Antivan bristled again. As if it were his fault Alistair had upset himself! Really, a man with so weak a stomach had no place in a military order. "Personally, I prefer my way," Zevran said, ignoring his patron's command. "To die fighting, slain quickly by blades. Is much better than lying abed, wasted from disease, or withered and infirm from old age. Do you not agree?"

Bannon didn't answer. Perhaps he thought about it.

===#===

The next farmhouse was not far; they could still see the smoke rising over the treeline. There were several pigs in the yard, thankfully quite dead. And the farmhouse was blessedly empty. These farmers must have been able to flee before the darkspawn arrived. That didn't stop the darkspawn from trying to corrupt whatever they could. Cabinets had been ransacked, and any food that had been left behind had been spoiled.

"Oh-ho!" Bannon cried, clapping a hand over his nose and mouth. "I didn't think anything could smell worse than darkspawn Taint."

Zevran wrinkled his nose. "Darkspawn piss." He remained unperturbed, probably by sheer force of will.

Leliana and Morrigan had already backed out of the house. "We are not going in there," the witch informed them.

"We have to check," Alistair insisted, his own voice muffled with his gauntlet. "If there's any chance of survivors..."

"They'd have to be passed out," Bannon said, his eyes watering.

"Have fun with that," Morrigan said. "We three shall investigate the barn."

===#===

There weren't any survivors, nor corpses for that matter. The barn doors had been left open; the plowhorse and probably some goats had been taken or turned loose.

"The barn looks good for camp tonight," Alistair reported a while later. "Leliana found a root cellar. We still have no meat, but at least we'll have fresh turnip and potato. Mmm, yummy." His voice remained flat, but at least he had the energy to be glib. "Morrigan found some of that elfroot herb at the edge of the fields. She commandeered Sten to go with her to harvest it."

"You need to go with her," Bannon said. "That shriek could go for them."

Alistair nodded. Before he could move off, Zevran came around the corner of the barn, clanking with chains and metal contraptions. "Wardens! I have found just what we need - traps!" The Antivan grinned. "We shall lay a trap for this wily beast. All we need is some live bait."

Alistair frowned. "Meaning...?"

"Wardens can sense the darkspawn, no?" Zevran looked between the two of them. They nodded. "And, as I understand, the reverse is also true. But - it is also true that darkspawn cannot sense the rest of us, _si?_ So, here is what I propose..." He moved past Bannon and Alistair a bit and pointed to a far corner of the property. "We place these traps there, with you-" he glanced at Bannon- "sitting amongst them, our live bait. I shall sneak up and lie in wait nearby, in my perfectly camouflaged cloak." Here, he turned to show off his rain cape, which by now was more mud than oilcloth. "When the shriek attacks, it shall be caught in a trap, and you and I will dispatch it. Clever, no?"

"No!"

Zevran and Bannon looked at Alistair. He turned to Bannon. "You can't be thinking of going through with this."

"It sounds risky, but it's not a bad plan." The former Templar did not look convinced. "We have to kill this thing," Bannon insisted. "We're going to have to lure it out somehow."

"Can we have a private Grey Warden conference?" Alistair shot the assassin a dark look. "And where is Leliana? You didn't leave her alone, did you?"

"She is not five feet away, in the barn- oh, very well." Zevran gave up at the Templar's stony look and went back into the barn with his traps.

"You can't be thinking of trusting him- at a time like this?"

"I don't!"

"Well, you guys have been getting rather friendly of late."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Not... Not _that!_ I mean... Just maybe because you're both elves?" Alistair didn't come out and say it, but what he meant was clear. Would Bannon have treated a human the same way? "You're trusting him awfully fast- letting him run around with weapons? Letting him use you as bait? He was trying to kill us just a couple of days ago, and probably still is."

Bannon chewed his lip. If a shem had tried to assassinate him... the bastard would be dead. But the circumstances would have been different! A human wouldn't have been a slave. "You think he's playing me?"

"I don't know," Alistair said unhappily. But it was clear that's what he was thinking. "Look, if these Antivan Crows are going to kill him just for failing his mission, imagine what they'd do to someone who actually changed sides."

The Templar had a point, a very good point. Bannon shook his head, not wanting to believe he could be so easily duped. "I told you, he can't kill us now. He doesn't stand a chance without us."

"It's only one darkspawn. Maybe he thinks he can escape it."

"And I still think that luring the shriek out will be our best chance to kill it." Bannon rubbed his brow.

"And I still think he could leave you out there and let it kill you, while he sneaks back around and kills me."

"You can keep watch from the barn."

"Watch what?" Alistair said in frustration. "Watch him stab you in the back? What good is that going to do?"

"You, Leliana, and Morrigan can watch. Leliana has a crossbow, Morrigan can cast magic. Between the three of you, you can take out whichever one of them kills me."

"Can't we have a plan where you don't die?" Alistair asked.

Bannon sighed. "I'm not going to die. I'll be careful."

"Why can't I be the bait?"

"Your armor is too heavy," Bannon hedged. "It might not want to attack you. And-" he said, cutting off any further argument- "if you go without armor, it might get suspicious." He didn't want to try to explain the 'deal' he'd made with the assassin to kill him first. Of course, Alistair probably didn't want Bannon to die because that would leave Alistair in charge. The elf rubbed his face and quashed that uncharitable thought about his fellow Grey Warden. "After we deal with this shriek, I'll take Zevran's swords away from him. You can tie him back up and watch him."

Alistair didn't say anything, he just exuded unhappiness.

"What?" Bannon prodded. "You want to just kill him now? For no reason?"

Alistair dropped his gaze. "No. No, I guess not."

"It'll be fine, Alistair," Bannon said, feigning confidence.

===#===

And so that's how he ended up out here, huddled in Alistair's rain cape, sitting on a stool, in the dark and the drizzle, surrounded by traps he hoped not to step in. Waiting tor a darkspawn to jump him, or to be stabbed in the back by an assassin in the grass. Wondering if he'd been conned by the Antivan. Wondering if he was just plain out of his mind. Everything Zevran had said or done could be a lie, an act. Or it could all be true. Well, that was stretching credulity; _some_ of it could be true. Some of the important parts. Dammit, Bannon was an accomplished liar, he should be able to spot one easily.

The only feeling he'd gotten from the Antivan was one of camaraderie and cooperation. Oh, it wasn't perfect; he complained, he annoyed. Bannon was confident the assassin truly wanted to escape the Crows and aid the Wardens. Confidence. That's what a _con_man was all about. _Shit!_

Bannon got a sinking feeling in his stomach. Then he realized it wasn't from his train of thought- it was the Taint. Bannon let his head droop further, pretending to be asleep on watch. He generated a snore to alert the assassin- Zevran's brilliant idea.

Now all they had to do was wait.

...

And wait.

What the hell was it waiting for? It should run up on him swiftly, before his sense of it 'awoke' him. Unless it was circling around the barn? Trying to catch the others unaware?

No, Bannon felt the Taint growing stronger. He gripped the sword hidden under his cape. _Just stay still, don't tense up, wait-_

A shrill scream drilled through his skull, and the thing was on him, its heavy weight on his back throwing him to the ground. The breath was knocked out of him, but he thrashed as best he could to avoid the wicked claws. The shriek's jaws closed on the cloak's hood instead of his neck. It started savaging him, growling. Yeah, there was another cloak Bodhan wasn't going to return the down payment on. Bannon let out a cry and tried to free his arms. Dammit, where the hell was that-?

Another scream split his ears. The darkspawn dropped heavily on him, knocking the breath out of him again. Hot, thick liquid spattered over his back and the ground. Then the weight was shoved off him.

"Are you all right, _mi patrone?_" Bannon could only groan. "Well," Zevran answered cheerily, "it didn't step in the wolf traps- quite dexterous that; you should have seen it leap! But no matter, for our baited trap has worked perfectly. Do you not agree?"

"Urgh."

Zevran sheathed his swords and bent to help Bannon up. "Come on, a nice dry bed of straw awaits you! Be careful where you step," he called cheerfully over his shoulder to the approaching Templar. "The traps are laid quite thickly."

"Are you all right?" Alistair's voice cut in. He grabbed Bannon's other arm, and he and the assassin got the elf to his feet.

"I'm fine," Bannon groaned. "I think I landed on my sword."

Alistair looked shocked, but Zevran just laughed. "At least not on the pointy end! Come, Alistair, there is no need to glare at me so. Did I not say my trap would work? You should trust me more."

The three of them walked back to the barn.

===#===

Zevran's elation at the success of his brilliant plan (but of course- were not all his plans successful?) came to an abrupt, untimely end when Bannon asked- no, commanded- him to relinquish his swords. Zevran frowned. "Have I not earned the right to keep them? Fighting for you, beside you, these past few days?"

"You've done well," Bannon said. "Thank you for saving me from that shriek. Twice." His voice didn't warm up, however. "Now that we're not in danger from darkspawn attack, I think it's more prudent for you not to have them." He held out his hand. "Weapons. Now."

Zevran glanced aside at the scowling Templar. "As you like." He sighed quietly and unbuckled his weapon harness. He handed it over.

Bannon took the swords over to stash them safely with the other supplies. Alistair remained, and Leliana helped him with the knots used to tie Zevran's hands behind him. They tied him to a post in the back of a stall, with a short rope. "A little gratitude for removing that bothersome shriek would be nice," he grumbled.

"Thank you, Zevran," Leliana said lightly.

"You will all sleep better tonight for sure, all thanks to me."

"I doubt that," Alistair said. "Now shut up and go to sleep."

Zevran sighed and lay down in the straw. "Well, _I_ shall sleep quite soundly."

===#===

Zevran jerked awake. His hands were bound tightly behind him. He lay on one side, on the well-polished floor of the Master's office.

"You've failed me, whelp." Master Farkus' voice rolled down from miles above him.

"I- no, I have _not_ failed, Master," Zevran said, trying in vain to get himself upright.

"You know the penalty for failure."

"No!" Zevran tried to control his panic. He couldn't be lying here helpless! He struggled to bring his arrogance and confidence to bear. "For a mere setback? A delay, nothing more! You can't afford to kill me, I am the greatest assassin in all Antiva! There will never be another like me. You know it!"

Farkus' laughter was like the rumble of thunder. His meaty hand clutched Zevran's hair and yanked him upright. "Do you think? Look!"

And then they were in a dingy warehouse, musty old straw strewn on the floor. A ragged band of little elf children stood clustered together, all skinny legs, big eyes, and pale faces. The girls had softly-pointed ears, like new flower buds unfurling. One freckle-faced boy had long ears sticking out from his thatch of hair, looking like a puppy that hadn't grown into his features yet.

"A dozen for two silver," Master Farkus bragged. "Your kind is cheap enough, little whore."

Zevran began to protest, but his throat was dry. Now it was Mistress Sabrine, Crow Master of Induction, who had her hand fisted in his hair.

"You now belong to the Crows," Mistress Sabrine told the children, her voice like a razor. "You will obey the Crow Masters. You will learn your lessons. This is what happens if you fail." She yanked Zevran's head back. "This is what happens if you betray the Crows." The knife in her other hand flashed out and cut deeply across Zevran's throat. His blood splashed the wide-eyed little elflings. Several screamed. They'd never been this close to death before. Zevran's body dropped lifeless to the straw, and the world went black, but he could still hear the crying of the children.

===#===

Zevran jerked awake. His hands were bound tightly behind him. It was dark; he couldn't see where he was, but he could feel the hard-packed floor beneath him, he could smell the musty straw. The Crows had him, and he was going to be executed- slaughtered- to teach the littles to fear the Crows. He started thrashing, yanking at his bonds, though the ropes cut and abraded his wrists. He had to escape!

Then there was a rustling, the scrape of a blade against a scabbard, and a black shape loomed out of the darkness. "What are you doing?" It pointed a sword at him, and Zevran froze.

"I... Warden?" Zevran looked up. There was a lantern somewhere, burning low. He could make out wooden beams overhead. Now he remembered where he was. "Warden... Alistair. I had a dream. A nightmare, nothing more." He swallowed and licked his lips. "I was not trying to escape."

The dim light was at Alistair's back. Zevran couldn't see his expression. He didn't move the sword from where it pointed at Zevran's neck. Would the human use it? Bannon had offered the man a knife to slit Zevran's throat when they'd first captured him and had him tied up at their mercy. Alistair had been too much of a soft-hearted coward to actually kill a helpless foe. That was before he'd seen the assassin's handiwork. Zevran swallowed again. He did not make any other move. The more passive he was, the harder Alistair would find it to kill him.

Then a cry startled both of them. Not the shriek; that was dead. It was Bannon, having nightmares again. Alistair moved off. For a moment, Zevran considered redoubling his effort to escape before the Warden came back. He slumped in his bonds. No, there was no point in that.

After a few minutes, some sleepy murmurings, some cranky grumblings, the two Wardens came back to loom over him again. "What are you doing?" Bannon asked him flatly.

"I had a dream, as I said." He blinked as Alistair raised the lantern to let the light fall on his face. "A nightmare, and l was thrashing around a bit. You know how it is."

"Nightmare about what?" Bannon knelt down beside Zevran. He leaned over him and tugged at his bonds to test them.

"I dreamt the Crows had captured me and were going to kill me." Zevran decided sweetening the deal with a little levity couldn't hurt. "I wouldn't try to escape from you, my dear handsome Wardens. You can tie me up and have your way with me any time."

He blinked in shock when Bannon turned and took a rope from Alistair. He didn't think they'd take him up on that! Oh, but of course the Denerim elf only wrapped it around Zevran's legs, tying him more securely.

Zevran wondered why the other elf was so paranoid. They'd been getting along very well. He rather liked Bannon. He was handsome (not quite so handsome as Zevran himself, of coarse), daring, funny... then Zevran recalled Alistair giving him black looks, calling him a murderer. The last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden, they must be rather close. Yes, Zevran would have to work on Alistair. Once both of the Wardens trusted him, then he would be free to... well, do whatever he needed to.

===#===

* * *

><p><em>End Notes:<em>

_This was more fun than tossing little house spiders into the fire!_

-omg, I can't believe any of my characters could be this ignorantly cruel! bannon, you're such a... a GUY!

_Outtakes:_

"Oh-ho!" Bannon cried, clapping a hand over his nose and mouth. "And I thought they smelled bad... on the outside!"


	16. The Road to Laketown

The Road to Lake Town

**Content:**

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama/Humor

Language: some

Violence: no

Nudity: none

Sex: no

Other: none

_Author's Notes:_

They WERE going to get to Lake Town by now. I swear. It's not my fault. Too much talking. And Alistair cooked... They'll get there next chapter, I promise! (You hear me, Brain? Get them there next chapter!)

* * *

><p><strong>The Road to Lake Town<strong>

===#===

The sky to the east began to lighten; it glowed a pale, watery gold. Above the black ink of the tree line, scattered clouds caught the light of the unseen sun and turned rosy pink. Bannon paused to look up at the moment of beauty in this time of turmoil. As he moved forward and came around the corner of the barn, he could see a sooty smudge where the pall of the smoldering farmhouse still stained the sky.

He found Leliana there, too, standing outside the doors of the barn, watching the light grow. She startled as he came up to her. A fleet smile sprang to her lips to hide her embarrassment.

"Sorry," he said quietly. He hadn't realized he'd been moving so silently.

"It's all right. I was only contemplating the nature of evil, and the Maker's divine will."

"You mean the darkspawn? And the Taint."

She nodded solemnly and returned to regarding the glowing eastern sky.

Bannon frowned to himself. "Doesn't the Chant of Light say the Maker created the darkspawn?"

"'And so it is the Golden City blackened with each step you take in my Hall,'" she quoted. "'Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting. You have brought Sin to Heaven and doom upon all the world.'"

"Yes," he said slowly, not sure this was a safe topic. He believed in the Maker, though the divine never really played any active part in the day-to-day life in the alienage. "So the Maker cursed the magisters who invaded the Golden City, turned them into darkspawn and then threw them back into the world, to prey on us. That doesn't make sense. It's the rest of the people that are suffering in these Blights."

Leliana turned her spooky gaze onto him and spoke harshly. "The Maker granted us the means to defeat the darkspawn, to stop the Blight. Yet the pettiness of mortal man squandered it." She scowled off into the trees. "Loghain has much to answer for."

Bannon couldn't argue with that.

A moment later, Alistair appeared, towing a limping Zevran by a rope still tied around one wrist. The assassin's left arm hung limply while he rubbed it. "Walkies," Alistair grumbled tiredly, and he handed the assassin's leash to Bannon before going back into the barn.

He looked at the Antivan elf. "You all right?"

"Oh, to be sure," Zevran agreed with a bite to his cheerful tone. "My arm has gone pleasantly numb from lying on it all night. I would caper about in joy as I look forward to stabbing pins and needles, but I have to take a piss."

"As long as you're happy," Bannon sniped back. He wasn't about to let the elf make him feel guilty. To Leliana he said, "I'll see you in a bit." He tugged Zevran's leash.

"Perhaps next time you can tie me spread-eagled to four posts," Zevran griped. "That might be more comfortable."

"We can try that," Bannon said mildly, earning a slit-eyed glare.

"Hopefully it will be in a proper bed. Though a bit of comfort seems too much to hope for with the Grey Wardens."

"So sorry, your pampered slaveness."

The... 'discussion' was fortunately cut short by their arrival at the outhouse. After that brief respite, Zevran's limbs were all back in working order. His mouth, of course, never seemed to have any difficulty. Alas.

"I do not see why these ropes are necessary."

"You're our prisoner," Bannon reminded him.

Zevran groaned. "I thought we went over this! Have I not proven myself to you yet?"

"No."

"But- but-!"

"Think about it," Bannon said. "Exactly how much of your story can I verify?"

"Uh..." Zevran thought it over a few moments. "You know the Antivan Crows are a guild of ruthless assassins."

Bannon nodded. "That's right, Leliana told us. I believe you both mentioned that once the Crows take a contract, the mark always dies. Therefore you- ruthless assassin that you are- are still trying to kill us."

"But what about the ruthless Crows who are out to kill me, now that I have failed?"

Bannon wagged a finger at him. "We only have your word that is true. Besides, it doesn't make sense." Zevran started to argue again, but Bannon cut him off. "Oh, sure, if we had kicked your ass and you slunk away, and we went around telling everyone how we beat the unbeatable Crows, then I could see it. But who are we going to tell?" He shrugged and looked around pointedly at the empty barnyard. "Hell, you bump us off now, who is even going to know that you failed?"

Zevran chewed his lip a few moments. "And my desire to escape my enslavement to the Crows?" he asked quietly, his gaze on the mud at his feet.

Bannon rubbed his chin. "Well, the best I can do is get Leliana to verify they have elven slavery in Antiva. As for the rest..." He shrugged again.

Zevran nodded. Then he looked up. "I will continue to prove myself, then. You... you must think there is some chance I am telling the truth, or you would have dispatched me."

Bannon thought back on that fateful decision. He had to wonder what he'd been thinking! Suckered by an elven slave sob story. Damn. He gave no indication of what he was thinking. Instead he only said darkly, "That's still an option."

===#===

There was grain in the barn, coarse animal feed. This morning's porridge (or gruel) was going to be rather chewy. Alistair sat beside the small fire outside the barn doors, stirring the pot slowly, not really watching. He tried to shake the cobwebs of sleep from his mind, and to forget his dreams of Tainted children. He hadn't been able to face them, to kill them. He rubbed his face.

The qunari settled beside the fire. Kneeling down, the grey giant was still taller than Alistair. "Morning, Sten," the Warden said, trying to brighten things up. "Did you sleep well?"

"I slept."

"Any dreams?"

"No."

"Must be nice," Alistair mused to himself. He waited for the qunari to pick up the conversation, ask the same questions in return. That, however, was not forthcoming.

Alistair sighed and stirred the porridge. He'd decided that's what it was. It sounded much more appetizing than 'gruel.' Gruel sounded somewhat like 'glue' and a whole lot like 'cruel.' It sounded like something grey and lumpy they fed to condemned prisoners in the dungeons. 'Porridge' was a much happier food. So tasty that little girls braved the wrath of bears just to eat some. Mmm! Though his concoction looked more like the aforementioned grey lumps, he figured the first step towards tastier food was giving it a pleasant-sounding name.

The qunari's voice startled him. "Do your teachings advocate restitution, or revenge?"

"Uh... teachings? You mean the Chant of Light?"

"When I killed that family, your priest sentenced me to die," Sten continued, his voice low and steady. "My death, in payment for the deaths I caused."

Alistair nodded. "Murderers are usually executed, yes."

"Yet your leader suggested otherwise. To repay those deaths by saving the lives of others." Sten turned his head and looked down at Alistair. "It sounded like a more noble idea."

"Well, it is."

"Yet, it is as you said: we have failed to save any of the inhabitants of these farmhouses."

Alistair let the ladle fall against the side of the pot. His shoulders slumped. "That's right." If only- what? If only they'd been faster? More numerous? If only they'd left Redcliffe earlier? If only the Grey Wardens had held at Ostagar. "But," he said slowly, looking up at the qunari's hard visage, "do you think dying in that cage would have been better? For anyone?"

"Hrm," the qunari rumbled as he thought it over. "No. Yet I still do not feel my debt has been paid."

"You do feel guilty, then."

"Yes."

Alistair hadn't really believed that, not before. But he could hear the tinge of regret in Sten's voice. "Why did you do it, then?" he asked impulsively. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Sten bowed his head. "I was mad."

"Mad? At a family of farmers?"

"I was mad with rage, and I was..." Sten closed his eyes. Alistair thought he was going to say 'afraid,' but to his surprise, the qunari said, "I was ashamed."

"Ashamed? But... what for? Because you lost a battle?"

"We were defeated in battle, yes. There is no shame in that. But... I lost my sword, but I did not die. I lost my soul, and yet I live."

Alistair frowned; he'd gotten lost on that last turn, there. "Your soul? But how can you-?"

"My sword is my Asala, the defining construct of my being. The concrete symbol of my place in the Beresaad. It is part of me, my soul."

"But can't you just get another sword?"

Sten sighed. "No. My Asala was forged for my hand alone, given to me as I was ordained to serve in the Beresaad. There is no other like it." He shook his horned head. "You _basra_ do not understand." He stood, suddenly towering over the human. "Those people were only trying to help me. They tended my wounds even though I was a stranger. I..." He looked around at the barnyard, the buildings, the fire and the bubbling pot. "I do not deserve to take comfort in the homes of these families. I will go on patrol." He pulled his great maul into his hands and strode off.

Alistair shook his head. He couldn't understand the qunari's philosophy or religion, but he sympathized with how he felt. Then he yelped as he realized the gruel was starting to scorch. He scrambled to try to salvage breakfast.

===#===

"Maker's Breath, Alistair!" Bannon said, wrinkling his nose. "What did you do to breakfast?"

"It's just a little scorched on the bottom."

"A little?" Bannon eyed the black chunks that stuck out of the lumpy grey glop in his bowl. Then he noticed there were significantly fewer in the Templar's Warden-sized serving. With a scowl, he grabbed Alistair's bowl away from him and shoved his own bowl into the man's hands.

"Hey," Alistair protested, making a grab for the good serving. "That's mine; I cooked, I get the first pick!"

"You cooked, so you're responsible for this mess; _you_ eat it!" The Templar gave up in chagrined defeat. "Where's Morrigan's bowl?" Bannon asked him. "I need to see her this morning."

"Ah!" Alistair's eyes lit up. "This is Morrigan's." With a grin, he produced a bowl that at first looked empty. But that was an illusion created by the large black disk inside it. Alistair had apparently taken great pains to pry the thickest, hardest chunk of burnt gruel out of the bottom of the pot in one piece. It was as thick as a plank of wood.

Bannon gave him an exasperated look. "I need to see her and _not_ die." He grabbed another bowl and began judiciously picking black slabs out of it and replacing them with spoonfuls of plain, unadulterated glop from his own bowl.

Alistair huffed in defeat, but brightened again quickly. With a smile of wicked triumph, he shoved the black bowl at the assassin. "This must be yours, then."

Zevran shot Bannon a desperate look, a mute plea for intervention. Bannon lowered his head over his own task, letting a lock of hair fall like a curtain so he could pretend not to have seen.

"Ah well," the Antivan said slowly, taking the proffered bowl. His voice lightened considerably. "It is better than some of the things I had to eat as a Crow trainee. And look!" He plucked the disk out of the bowl with his fingers. "I do not even require a spoon. You are most gracious, Alistair. I give you my most heartfelt thanks- or, in the tongue of my forefathers, _matraen shallotte, ir din!_"

Bannon suppressed a cough and nearly choked himself to death. He looked up in time to see Zevran actually gamely take a bite out of the edge of the disk.

"Oh, thank you," Alistair said. "I mean- you're welcome." He handed a bowl to Leliana, while the three of them watched Zevran chewing crunchily, a big fake smile plastered on his face. Finally, Leliana huffed and plucked the burnt gruel out of Zevran's hand.

"Honestly, Alistair; this jest has gone on long enough." She flung the offending disk away. "You wouldn't feed that to a dog!"

"No, no, my dear," Zevran assured her, having somehow managed to swallow the charcoal he'd been chewing. "As has been pointed out to me numerous times, I am the prisoner of the Wardens. They may torture me as they see fit." He sighed with a laudable note of self-pity.

Bannon squashed his guilt, recognizing the bald-faced ploy. He glanced up as Alistair squirmed. Leliana pointedly gave Zevran her bowl, which Alistair had considerately prepared to be mostly black-flake free.

"Besides," the assassin said with a laugh; "I really have eaten worse. But I shall not ruin your appetite with the lurid details."

"That is considerate, thank you," Leliana said, deftly cutting off Zevran's leer.

Having slapped together a peace offering for Morrigan, Bannon got up to take it to her.

===#===

He brought the hot food inside the barn, like an offering of a slab of meat to a big, slavering mabari, hoping the beast would be placated and not just encouraged to take his hand off. The witch took her bowl with a quiet thank-you. "Don't thank me just yet," he warned. "Alistair cooked."

She rolled her eyes. Bannon plucked a charcoal chip out of this gruel and used it like a piece of toast to scoop up a lump. He chomped on it and made a face. Ugh, how could the assassin stand to eat even one bite of this stuff? Not to be shown up, Bannon choked it down.

He glanced over and noticed Morrigan's eyes sparkling, her cheeks slightly dimpled as she chewed her own breakfast. He flushed slightly. "Mm, boy," he said flatly; "Alistair's cooking: nothing like it in the world." This prompted an unladylike snort from her as she attempted to keep her mouth closed while laughing.

"Listen," he said seriously, "we should reach that town today, and the Circle Tower this afternoon, or tomorrow."

"And?"

"And I was wondering if you're going to go with us." He used his spoon to break up some of the larger chunks in his gruel, into smaller pieces that would be easier to stomach. He hoped. "From what Alistair says... well, he believes all mages in Ferelden are supposed to be locked up there."

Her face darkened. "What do _you_ believe?"

"Look, I know you're not Fereldan, so that doesn't apply to you. But there's supposed to be a lot of Templars there. I can see how that might make you... uncomfortable."

"Templars are fools," she scoffed. "Sometimes a pair or small group of them would come after Mother and I. When I was a little girl," she said, here eyes softening in memory, "Mother would look at me and grin. 'Templars,' she'd say, and off I would scurry, out into the swamp. A helpless little waif, crying for her mummie, lost and alone, boo hoo." She wiped an imaginary tear from the corner of her eye. "And the Templars would follow me, deeper into the Wilds, straight into Mother's traps. It wasn't until I was much older that I realized what danger we were in if they caught us."

"Your mother used you as bait?"

"'Twas all a game to me, then. I thought it great fun."

"Killing Templars?" Bannon couldn't blame the old witch for defending herself. But using a little girl- her own daughter!- in that way? That was cold. It was beyond cold.

Morrigan stiffened in offense. "She made them disappear. She treated it like a game so a child would not learn fear. I do not fear Templars. They are simply men, easily fooled, distracted by anything feminine enough." Here, she straightened further, emphasizing her charms (and displaying the magic that kept that loose cloth in place over them). Bannon studied his bowl before he got 'distracted.' "And so dulled by that nonsense the Chantry fills their heads with, they wouldn't know what to do with any sort of independent thought."

"Whoa, whoa; all right," Bannon said, keeping his head down and his voice soft, until she calmed a bit. "I know you don't like Templars or the Circle. If you don't want to go in there, it's no problem. You don't have to decide now," he added quickly, to forestall more protestations.

She narrowed her eyes. "Just make sure that fool Templar friend of yours doesn't get any ideas."

"Alistair? He wouldn't do that," Bannon assured her, wondering if that's exactly what Alistair was thinking. He changed the subject. "Anyway, as promised, everyone will be getting three silvers from the group fund, to spend in town. I know you need a new belt knife."

"The assassin doesn't sill have mine, does he?" She gave Bannon a judgemental glower.

"No," he assured her; "I took it away from him. Actually, I threw it into the fire. I hope you don't mind."

"I do not," she said, mollified.

"I'd give you Zevran's, but I can't be sure it isn't dipped in poison."

"I will procure one, thank you."

They finished eating, then Bannon wanted to check on Morrigan's hand. She unwrapped the bandage. The wound looked a lot better. Pink and raw as it was, at least it wasn't sickly black.

"The elfroot poultice has helped it greatly," Morrigan explained. "There is no infection."

"Good." Bannon took the bandage and began to re-wrap it.

"I'm quite capable of doing that myself," she snapped.

"All right," he said mildly. He sat watching her awkwardly try to tie the bandage with one hand.

Finally, she sighed in annoyance. "Fine; if you're just going to sit there, you might as well make yourself useful." She thrust her hand at him.

Careful to keep his expression neutral, Bannon complied. He didn't know whether to score this one as getting into the witch's good graces, or as annoying her without getting hurt. The former was probably too optimistic.

===#===

Bannon gave everyone their share as they packed up to move out. He thought the qunari might refuse, saying that taking money was somehow against the Qun, but Sten just accepted his coins silently. Of course, the assassin wanted to know where his share was.

"Only our allies get a share," Bannon told him.

"Not," Alistair put in, "say, assassin's trying to kill us. Who might use it to buy a dagger to cut our throats while we sleep."

Zevran sighed. "I do not need to buy a dagger- I have a collection of fine weapons." He shot a slit-eyed gaze at Bannon. "If only they were returned to me. I would certainly only spend my pay on whores. Nothing more dangerous than that."

"Does the phrase 'fat chance' hold any meaning for you?"

At first, Zevran seemed about to start on one of his day-long arguments. Then suddenly he heaved a deep sigh and slumped. "Very well, _mi patrone_. I suppose three silvers is rather too cheap to get a quality whore, anyway."

Bannon gave him the smaller bow. Leliana also informed Zevran that she had excised anything dangerous from his pack, and so he could carry it himself again. He thanked her profusely in honey-coated sarcasm. Bannon resisted the urge to whack him upside the head as they started down the road.

Morrigan told Zevran, "You ought to be more grateful to those who spared your life."

"But I am grateful! Did you not see me being grateful? I shall redouble my efforts!" This elicited a groan from Leliana _and_ Alistair. Zevran ignored them and made eyes at Morrigan. "Shall I shower you with gratitude in your bed tonight?"

"Any unwanted pests I find in my bed shall be consigned to the fire."

Zevran sighed dramatically. "You are a cruel, cruel woman," he lamented. "But how am I to please you if you do not tell me what you like, hm?"

"Shutting up would be a start."

"Done!"

"Dying would be perfect."

"But then I would be unable to serve and protect _mi patrone_ and his band of loyal companions."

This time Bannon joined Leliana and Alistair in a collective groan. The witch couldn't have just left it at shutting up, no! That _might_ have worked for a good quarter hour or so. Perhaps if they didn't talk to him... But he had an opinion on everything. And didn't mind sharing. A lot.

Finally, the elf's obsequiousness prompted a question from Alistair. "What's a 'pat-trone' anyway? Why do you keep calling Bannon that?"

"Ah," Zevran answered happily, "as you know, assassination contracts are the bread and butter of the Antivan Crows. But some of the larger, older cells have a _patrone_- what you would call a patron. The patron funds some of the cell's running expenses, and in return, any time the patron needs someone removed...," he spread his hands. "They only need make a formal request of the Master."

"Wouldn't that be more expensive in the long run?" Bannon asked, wrinkling his brow.

"Perhaps. It depends on how many 'problems' one needs taken care of. The other benefit, of course, is that the cell will not accept any contracts against their patron." Bannon shot him a look and Zevran nodded. "'Twould be bad business, no?"

"What if another of these 'cells' gets a contract for the patron?"

"Ah, that can be a sticky situation indeed. I have heard tales of very loyal cells going to defend their _patrone_, but they ended up being wiped out." Zevran frowned to himself a moment, examining the implications that held for his current situation. Then he shrugged. "The best tactic would be for the _patrone_ to send his cell after his rival directly."

Bannon grit his teeth in frustration. "Well, I did try to send you to kill Loghain, but oh, no, you couldn't do _that_."

"An unwise use of resources," Zevran said, waving it off. "I am not an entire cell, after all. If I were, I could do what you ask. By myself? Somehow, I do not think your dour general is a target I am likely to be able to seduce."

"We don't do that in Ferelden," Alistair said, wrinkling his nose.

"Do what?"

The human wrinkled his nose further. "That whole... men thing." The assassin snorted at that. "Men and women get together. That's normal."

"You were in the Templars, _si?_ In the barracks, with all men?"

"Yeah..."

"Did not any of these men seem very friendly together?"

"No!"

"No?" Zevran insisted. "No two fellows always together; constant, close companions?"

"They were just friends!" Alistair's eyes widened as he grew flustered by the assassin's implications. "Th-they took a vow of chastity, for Maker's sake!"

"Did this vow state they would never have sex with anyone or anything ever again? Or did it merely say they would not 'have relations' with women?"

Alistair's face went florid. He stuttered. "W-w-well, that's what it _means!_"

"Trust me, Alistair. You may never had seen or heard of it here in Ferelden, but it does happen," Zevran said a bit more gently. "I tell you what. Let us, you and I, go to the brothel in this town. I will ask if they have a boy for me, and I will bet you whatever they charge that they do."

The thought of going to a brothel by itself made Alistair gibber, never mind the rest. Bannon saved his fellow Warden. "You don't have any money to bet."

"Whose fault is that?" Zevran griped.

"The guy who decided to attack us," Bannon shot back.

"Oh, I shall blame Loghain for this, then."

Bannon lengthened his stride, the conversation over from his point of view. The assassin trotted to catch up to him, because he was certainly not finished. "I would only need money if I lose the bet," he pointed out. "Which I shall not."

"Alistair doesn't have the money, either."

"Oh! That's right! You hold the purse strings to this little company." Zevran grinned. "So would you care to take up the bet? You could set Alistair's mind at ease."

Bannon sighed. "No bet. No brothel. No whores. No money. You got that?"

Now it was Zevran's turn to sigh. "Just what I need, a patron who is no fun!"

===#===

* * *

><p><em>End Notes:<em>

_Bannon: "Does the phrase 'fat chance' hold any meaning for you?"_

5000 Bloodsong points if you know who originally said this one! If you've ever heard of 'Wizards & Warriors,' you're okay in my book! Dirk Blackpool said this to Vector once, when they were drunk, and Vector suggested Dirk let him have his monocle back for a minute.


	17. Lake Town

Lake Town

**Content:**

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama/Humor

Language: some

Violence: no

Nudity: none

Sex: some smexy talk

Other: obesity is mocked for humor, contains Zevranisms

_Author's Notes:_

This was going to be quite short. Then the boys started in. Then there was this big religious argument. Oh well, at least there's cookies. And pie! And Zevran vs Carroll.

But no, no DA2 cameo appearances.

* * *

><p><strong>Lake Town<strong>

===#===

The town was overflowing with people, ox carts, chickens and goats, even a fancy horse-drawn carriage of some bann or other. It looked like a festival, until one got closer and saw apprehension in place of delight on people's face.

"More refugees," Bannon said sourly. On the bright side, there was a crowded, make-shift market that spilled out from the town square and down the road. The merchants were probably as bad as Stafford back in Lothering. As crowded and chaotic as it was, any guardsmen would have trouble keeping watch on it all. "All right," Bannon told his troops; "meet in front of the biggest inn at noon."

They dispersed, Leliana towing a scowling, yet oddly compliant Morrigan. Alistair started off, saying, "I'm going to get me some sausages!" Then he winced and stopped dead. He shared a leery look with Bannon. "Um... perhaps a nice ham instead."

Bannon, of course, was stuck with his charge, the assassin. Zevran grinned irrepressibly. "So, can we find the whorehouse?"

===#===

"Hey, ox-head! Ox-head, ox-head! Hey, you big ox!"

Sten turned his horned head slowly. His body followed, and he walked over to a very rotund child sitting on a low garden fence. The rail bowed under him slightly. "You are too small. Return to the creche for more training with the priests."

"I'm not small," the boy said, cramming a handful of food into his mouth. He chewed and talked, and sprayed crumbs everywhere. "You're a big ox. You should pull our wagon."

"Are you a farmer?" Sten asked.

"Of course not," the boy said indignantly, partly muffled by the wad of food in his mouth. He stuffed more in before he'd even swallowed. "I'm Bann Adelph. My daddy is Bann Roald." He puffed up his chest, emphasizing his bulk.

"They need to reduce your rations," Sten pointed out. He plucked the bag of food from the child's pudgy hand.

"Hey! That's mine!" Adelph screeched. He pushed himself off the fence rail and tried to grab the bag back. It was a futile effort. Standing upright, he was even shorter. "Give it back!"

Sten held the bag casually in one hand, well above the child's head. "If you are not overweight, you should manage to reach it."

Adelph hopped like a puffed-up frog, his feet barely leaving the ground. The strained seams of his boots threatened to pop at each heavy landing. His face purpled in effort.

After two and a half futile tries, he turned and waddled off as fast as his legs could carry him. "Waaaah! Daddy, daddy, the big ox stole my goodies!" He disappeared between two wagons, bawling.

A moment later, the noise was cut off with a sharp slap and a woman's voice yelling, "Addy! How many times do I have to tell you? Stop fibbing!" Then ensued more wailing.

Sten turned and continued on his way. In curiosity, he pulled one of the baked roundels from the bag and bit into it. He stopped dead.

It was crunchy, and yet a bit chewy at the same time. More dense than bread, and crumbly. And the flavor! He'd taken the food for some sort of hardbread, but it was like nothing he'd ever tasted. It wasn't dull and bland like bread, nor gamey like meat. It wasn't strong and earthy like vegetables, or tart like fruit, or fiery like spices. Sten chewed slowly. It was a pleasant, tingly taste. Just to be sure, he finished that one and ate another.

Whatever the _basra_ did to their hardbread, it was amazing!

===#===

The two elves wended their way through the bazaar of wagons and carts, the crowds of tall humans. No one remarked on the fact that they were carrying weapons. Everyone bore weapons; it was a bad time.

"We should stock up on supplies," Bannon said. He passed Zevran a few coppers. "All right, Bann Charming, see if you can occupy the lady's attention." He nodded towards a doughty woman with an applecart.

Zevran's brows went up. "As you like, _mi patrone_." He marched right over and leaned towards the woman. "What fine apples you have today, my lady! Yet none can compare to the rosy shine of your cheeks." She tittered and blushed while the Antivan laid it on thick.

A few minutes later, the two elves met up a bit further down the lane. "Look at this," Zevran bragged. "Two for the price of one!"

"That's good. Put them in here with the others."

Zevran goggled. Good, it was about time for him to recognize Bannon's prowess. "Where did you get that sack?"

"Hey, nobody was using it," Bannon said. The fact that it came with a few potatoes already in it was just a bonus.

The two continued through the market, picking up various goods at discounted prices. It worked very well, until Zevran started complementing the man with the carrots. That merchant set two boys with sticks and a dog on them.

The rogues raced through the market and into the town proper. They managed to lose the shems, but the dog was, well, dogged. They cut through narrow alleyways, and finally ended up treed in a dead end piled with broken crates.

"Give me a boost," Zevran said, looking up from their precarious perch to the roof of the building next to them.

Bannon snorted. "_You_ give _me_ a boost."

"Oh, fine! But leave me the sack of goods so I know you won't take off without me."

Bannon happily let him carry the sack. He clambered up to the rooftop with help from the assassin, then reached down to give him a hand.

"You're quite strong," Zevran noted as he scrambled up beside the Denerim elf.

"Yeah, it's a Grey Warden thing."

Zevran grinned. "And rooftop running is an assassin thing. Come, let us lose that yappy mongrel." He sprinted away over the slanted roof and leapt to the next. Not to be outdone (and not to lose his prisoner), Bannon followed.

The cluster of tenements had only small variations in height. Then they came to a taller, larger building. Zevran launched himself at the chimney, scrabbling for hand- and toe-holds in the stonework. Bannon almost caught up to him, then he cut a sharp turn, ran down the slope, and flew across an alley to the roof of a shop.

Bannon put on a burst of speed and hoped he made it all the way across. He did, but landed awkwardly with an "oof!" A loose tile skidded out from under his foot and dropped over the edge. "And nobody notices you up here?" he scoffed.

"Tsk. You must learn to be lighter on your feet!" Zevran turned on his toes, graceful as a dancer. Another loose tile dislodged, and then he was as graceful as a dancer on ice. "And run on roofs in better repair," he grumbled. "Do they need to be so steep? In Antiva, they are flat. Good for a midnight rendezvous in rooftop gardens."

"We don't spend any time on our roofs."

"No?"

"They're for keeping off rain and snow."

"Ah, right."

They continued to a quieter residential part of town and got back to the ground via a shed in someone's back yard garden.

"Aha," said Bannon. "And here's our carrots, much fresher!" He yanked up a handful.

Zevran came back and held the sack open for them, but he was impatient. "Come on, I do not wish to be chased again."

"Hey, waste not, want not. That's what my mother always said."

"Was she a thief, too?"

Bannon's head snapped up. "I am a carpenter," he asserted. "And a Grey Warden." He dusted off his hands and made his way to the garden gate. It was locked, so he just vaulted it.

"Is that what you call it in Ferelden?" Zevran said, following suit and then shouldering the sack. "I can see how your _carpentry_ skills are most valuable to the Wardens."

Bannon chuckled as they went on down the lane. "Yeah, well, keep it under your hat."

"I do not wear a hat. Can I keep it under my kilt?"

"Gah- No!"

"No? I should whip it out of my kilt then, shall I?"

"Argh!"

===#===

Alistair spotted the qunari first. It wasn't difficult; Sten stood head, shoulders, and horns over everyone else. Plus, an empty space always seemed to form around him.

"Whatcha got there?" he asked amicably as he walked up to the giant.

"Small, round, crisp foodstuffs." Sten contemplated the one he held delicately between finger and thumb.

"Oh, cookies! I got a nice big ham!"

"Cookies," Sten repeated contemplatively. He put the cookie in his mouth. "We do not have these in Par Vallon."

"Where'd you get those?"

"There was a fat, slovenly child. I relieved him of them."

"Wh-!?" Alistair blinked up at the placid qunari. "You stole them? You stole cookies from a child?"

"Trust me, he did not need them."

Alistair was still trying to formulate a response to that when the two elves came over.

"Don't ruin your appetite," Bannon said. "Leliana got a pie."

"Pie?" asked Sten. "What is pie?"

"Oh-ho, pie!" said Alistair. "Pies are good. It's for dessert," he explained to the blank-looking qunari.

"'Dessert'? To abandon one's post?"

"No, 'dessert,' with two S's. It's, you know- sweets, confections, goodies. What you get to have after dinner if you eat up all your vegetables."

Sten solemnly filed this away. Zevran said, "I suppose this dessert is only for people who are not your horribly mistrusted and mistreated prisoners." He sighed wistfully.

Bannon rolled his eyes. "You can have some pie."

"Oh, truly?" Zevran clasped his hands together and made exaggerated doe-eyes at the other elf. "You are such a kind and generous patron," he gushed with false gratitude. "Whatever have I done to deserve such high regard from your-"

"Does he ever shut up?" Alistair asked Bannon.

"Not that I noticed."

"Eloquence and charm are valuable assets," Zevran began. The Wardens just spoke over him, ignoring whatever he was saying.

"I got ham," Alistair said, proudly displaying his prize.

Bannon's eyes lit up. "All right!" He shared a grin with Alistair.

"Is this exclusively Grey Warden ham, or is it for everybody?" the annoying Antivan butted in.

"You know, it's _my_ ham; I get to decide who to share it with."

"Name your price, O Master of Hams!"

"Do you even talk with your mouth full?"

Zevran's grin broadened. "That depends entirely on what it is full of, my dear handsome Warden." Alistair didn't know why Zevran was looking at him like that and licking his lips, but he found it very disturbing.

"Maybe Sten will give you a cookie."

From Sten: "No."

At an end to his rope, Alistair looked at his fellow Warden. Bannon said, "If you're not good _and_ quiet, then you won't get any pie."

"But you said the pie is for everyone!" Maker's Breath, sometimes this elf sounded like a 7-year-old!

"The pie _is_ for everyone," Leliana said, coming over to them with Morrigan beside her. The bard carried a deep, covered dish, which immediately drew everyone's undivided attention. "We only need to find a place for luncheon. The inns and taverns are crowded with refugees from the south, and even local people who are abandoning their homes in fear that the Blight will not be stopped."

"They don't even have any rooms," Bannon griped.

Alistair said, "They have one here." He pointed at the large tavern behind Sten. "But the innkeeper told me he'd charge us sixteen silvers per person."

Morrigan snorted. "He offered it to us for ten."

"You-!"

"It's all in the charm, Alistair."

"The charmer or the snake," the Templar grumbled underbreath.

"Wait a minute," Bannon jumped in before a full-blown argument ensued. "He told us we had to sleep in the barn!"

"That must be because you are elves," Lelaiana said, earning herself a dirty look from both Bannon and Zevran. "I mean," she added hastily, "he must have taken you for servants. Did you tell him you're a Grey Warden?"

"With the price Loghain has on our heads?"

Alistair agreed. "Yeah, we're not trying that any more."

Bannon said, "Look, we have the treaty with the Circle of Magi, we'll just go to the Tower and have them put us up for the night. They must have guest rooms or something."

"I am not sleeping in a barn again," Zevran insisted.

Morrigan said, "Do these poor fools even have visitors? Or are they just locked up and forgotten?"

"The mages aren't locked up," Alistair said. Morrigan made it sound like one huge dungeon.

"Oh? Then they are free to leave at any time?"

"Um..." He shook his head. Now as not the time to get caught up in trying to explain Circle protocol to the witch. Not when there was pie to be had! "All right, I have an idea," he said, deftly avoiding that morass. "Everyone's taking the north road up towards West Hill arling. It branches off to go to the Tower. Nobody should be on that road, maybe we can find a quiet spot for a picnic?"

This notion was unanimously received, even by Morrigan. They followed a group of wagons out of town. Alistair asked Leliana to take the others ahead, because he had some 'Warden Business' to discuss with Bannon. He dropped back with the elf. Or, rather, elves.

Alistair frowned at Zevran. "Private Grey Warden business," he emphasized.

"Who am I going to tell?"

"It's all right, Alistair," Bannon said. "The others don't want to watch him."

"Well, since you're here, I thought I saw you guys running through town. What was that all about?"

Zevran laughed, and Bannon groaned. "Zevran complimented a man on his carrots."

"His... carrots?"

"Yes!" the Antivan said eagerly. "He had magnificent carrots! So long, so thick." He began gesturing. "So nicely rounded at the tip. Not those skinny, tapering ones. Not limp, but crisp and hard. And oh, such a nice, thick root..." He half-closed his eyes and mimed grabbing the carrot.

"Gah! I was happier not knowing the details!"

"But you asked, no?"

"Look, just walk up ahead there a bit, would you?"

"Where you can see me, but not so far as a bowshot, _si_? As you wish!"

Alistair and Bannon dropped back a little more. "If this is about Morrigan..."

"Actually, it is. How did you know?"

The elf shook his head. "Don't even think about it."

"But- what? There will be a platoon of Templars there at the Tower. Just one word, and they will have her locked safely away." Why was Bannon staring at him so incredulously? It seemed the most logical thing to do. "She's an apostate," he spelled out.

"No, Alistair."

"She's dangerous!"

"Dangerous to who?"

"To us, for one."

"Only if we piss her off," Bannon said. "Which, by the way, turning her over to the Templars definitely will do."

"They can handle one apostate."

"She knows this is what you're thinking. She'll be prepared. It _will_ get messy."

"But it's the Law," Alistair said, falling back on the bulwark of his training. "It's the Maker's word."

"No it isn't," Zevran said from ahead of them. Alistair gritted his teeth. The elf turned around, walking backwards for a few paces. "What?" he said; "You think these long ears are just to attract the ladies?" Zevran stopped until the Wardens caught up, then he continued along with them. "You don't seriously believe everything the Chantry says is the word of the Maker."

"Of course I do. Because it _is_." That's what the Chantry existed for! To spread the light and word of the Maker.

Zevran waved his hand, dismissing the entire notion. "No. The Maker comes down, riding a golden cloud, and write letters ten feet high in flames- that is the word of the Maker. Some mortal comes along and copies them, then it enters the realm of the mundane. They can be misinterpreted, copied wrong... changed. The Chant of Light was written entirely by humans. Not by the Maker."

"But..."

"You do not believe that the Maker speaks to all the Sisters and Chanters? Like your lovely red-haired friend?"

"I- Well... no."

Zevran shrugged. "So you see. Even the Divine in the Holy Palace in Val Royeaux- she is a mere mortal like the rest of us."

"The Chantry exists to help people. To do good works in the Maker's name."

Zevran turned to face him. They'd slowed to a stop on the road. Bannon watched the two of them, his face drawn in thought. Alistair felt the furrows wrinkling his forehead. He didn't like aruging about holy matters. Especially with unbelievers. Zevran said, "The Chantry's concern is the same as any other mortal endeavor: money."

"No, it-"

The elf stopped him with a raised finger. "If you wish to enlist a healer, who do you go to? Who do you pay for these services?"

"The Chantry heals and cares for the needy-"

"If you want to buy a magic potion, where do you go? Who do you pay? An enchanted weapon? If you want a mage to go with you on an expedition, where do you go, and who charges you the fees? The Chantry," Zevran said evenly. "The Chantry controls the mages, and thus has a monopoly on all things magical. They can charge whatever they please."

Alistair bit his lip, because he didn't know what to say. Zevran continued. "If mages were allowed to roam free, they would become competition. The Chantry would lose money."

Alistair shook his head. "But mages are dangerous. What about abominations? What- what about Maleficarum? The Templars protect us from those things."

"You know, I can't help but notice a similarity between the Templars and the Antivan Crows."

"_What?_" Alistair didn't anger easily, but this elf was seriously asking for it.

Unconcerned, Zevran said, "They find these mages when they are young, when they are- how do you say?- malleable." He mimed squeezing a lump of clay in his hand. "Strip them away from their family, isolate them, teach them obedience out of fear..."

"That's not true!"

"Some of these Templars, they do not take vows, _si?_ They get a pretty little maid, helpless and alone, surrounded by strong, armored men..."

"_You shut up, right now!_"

Bannon stepped between them. "All right, take it easy!" He pressed one hand to Alistair's breastplate. The elf was too small to move him, but Alistair stepped back anyway. He didn't want to get into a fight. He didn't want to have a theological discussion. Maker, he just wanted to have a peaceful, quiet lunch!

"Zevran, go on ahead and tell the others we'll catch up." Bannon jerked his chin, indicating the fork in the road where the others were standing, looking back with varying degrees of concern.

"I think they can hear us yelling," the assassin said.

"Just go. Please."

"As you wish, _mi patrone_." He gave a brief bow and left, swaggering down the road, that arrogant-!

Alistair put a hand to his face, grinding the glove leather to his skin.

"Let's be logical for a minute," Bannon said, after watching the others turn down the road to the Tower. Alistair looked at him. "If we do turn Morrigan over, if they do take her... We're going to be facing lines of darkspawn that aren't frozen stiff; they're going to be hell-bent on kicking our asses. If there's a mage, one of those alphas, he's going to be flinging fireballs and shooting lightning at us, and there won't be anyone shooting back." Bannon moved in front of him, looking up into his face. He put both hands on Alistair's arms. "Morrigan is the only one of us who knows how to make the elfroot into those potions. And without those? Every one of us would be dead by now." He tugged at Alistair's arm. "We need her."

"We're going to the Circle. We can get another mage."

"Can we?"

"Uhh... well, we can put in a request. I mean, we do have the Treaty and all."

Bannon rubbed his face. "We could conscript one, I guess."

Alistair frowned. "We can't. We don't know how to do the Joining."

"_They_ don't know that." The elf tipped his head.

"What? Lie to the Templars?"

The elf sighed. Alistair gritted his teeth again. "Look, I know the Grey Warden mission is important, but we're supposed to be the good guys here."

"And people should help us because it's the right thing to do?" the elf asked skeptically.

"Yes."

"Like they did at Ostagar?"

Alistair winced; he literally felt as if Bannon had struck him. "I don't want to turn into Loghain, just to fight Loghain."

"All right. We don't have any real clout to back up a conscription, anyway." Bannon scratched his head, then smoothed back his hair. "But Alistair, please. Don't do anything rash."

"I don't think it's rash. I think it's prudent." Why didn't Bannon see the danger? Hello? Apostate mage on the loose!

Bannon took a breath, and Alistair could see he was trying to keep his patience. "I think... your opinion might be somewhat influenced by your training." Bannon looked him in the eye. Alistair scowled. "Have you been talking to Sten? The Qun tells them to treat their mages like rabid animals."

"No. That's barbaric."

"They're not animals, they're people, like everyone else. And honestly? I don't see anything wrong with them wanting to be free instead of locked up somewhere. Anyone would want that."

Alistair blinked, nearly poleaxed. Mages _were_ people, but that fact was buried under the labels the Chantry doctrine gave them. It was always 'mage' this and 'mages' that. 'A mage,' 'the mage,' never simply 'him' or 'her.' Always what they might do, never what they might think, or how they might feel. "But the Chantry teaches them about the dangers of demons in the Fade. Without that..."

"I'm sure Morrigan knows all about that. Flemeth probably taught her."

"You know, Flemeth is probably a demon. If she really is the Flemeth from the legends."

"You can't possibly believe that." The elf tossed up his hands. "She's not _that_ old."

"A demon might be able to keep her body young."

"In that case, it's doing a really bad job," Bannon shot back. Alistair had to admit he couldn't argue with that. "Look, Alistair; I'm not saying you're wrong. And I'm definitely not saying Zevran is right, but-"

"He's not completely wrong, either." The elf's sentence stumbled to a halt. Alistair wasn't even sure himself he'd said the quiet words out loud, but there they were. He dropped his gaze to the dirt of the road and began walking.

A moment later, he felt Bannon's presence walking quietly beside him. The elf said nothing, for which Alistair was immeasurably grateful. But like a lanced boil, the bitterness he'd been harboring bubbled out. "Some of the older boys," he mumbled. "They'd talk like... like that." They walked on a bit more in silence, then Alistair had to stop. He stood under the old dead tree that marked the turn off to the mage's enclave.

"I'm a devout Andrastean, don't get me wrong. I believe in the struggle to make this world a better place. I believe in the freedom Blessed Andraste bought for us with her life. It's just... when I got to the Chantry, it was all rules and politics.

"The Chantry is a real dumping ground for kids nobody wants. The lazy second son of the noble families, the useless third son a merchant can't afford to buy a dowry for, or especially any unwanted bastards like me." He spat out the words, trying to clear their bitter taste from his mouth.

"Alistair, you're not-"

"Oh yes I was! Lady Isolde couldn't stand the sight of me. She wanted me _gone_. That was it, then, pack him off to the Templars, with all the other useless trash." He shook off Bannon's further attempt to mollify him. It was all true, and what did it matter any more, anyway? Hell, Isolde was dead, and he honestly couldn't dredge up a tear for that.

"And if you were some rich brat? Or had connections in the nobility, you'd get all the promotions, all the plum assignments. And the rest of the dregs? We get to scrub the floors! 'Oh, cleanliness is next to holiness,'" he mocked viciously. "'Learn humility in the service of our Maker.' Like we needed more humility? Learn humiliation is more like it. Those stuck-up rich bastards are the ones who could use that particular lesson. They treated us like servants, always ordering us around. We had to do what they said, they outranked us!"

Alistair paced beneath the tree, while his comrade watched. "Some of the men and women who joined the Templars, I think they did just because they hated mages. They didn't want to guard and protect them, they just wanted to hunt them down and kill them. I can't imagine them living in the Tower." He gesticulated, his voice rising in volume. "They'd just be waiting for any excuse. Some poor mage could be reading in the library, and get a paper cut, and they'd go nuts. 'Oh, look, a blood mage! Off with his head!'"

He stopped to catch his breath. "You know, I really-." Alistair blinked, the realization hitting him out of the blue. "I really hated being in the Templars," he said, a bit hesitantly, trying it out. "I never realized. I... I always thought I just resented being sent away from Redcliffe. But... Wow. I'm so glad Duncan got me out of there. I mean, sure the Grey Wardens recruit almost anybody- thieves, lowlifes, brigands. You know, like Daveth. But he wasn't a bad guy. And the Wardens... they just seem so pure in their purpose. Do you know what I mean?"

"We don't get paid enough to be all about the money?" Bannon quipped wryly. Alistair coughed a dry laugh. "So, you're just going to... what? Throw over all your Templar training?"

"Well, no," Alistair said slowly. "I didn't mind the training, and the scriptures and devotions, just..." He gestured, trying to find the right words. "All the rules and the hidden agendas and politicking. The in-fighting."

"Wardens don't have all that crap. They just fight darkspawn."

"Yeah."

"Darkspawn are definitely not people."

"Right!"

Bannon nodded. "And the Grey Wardens recruit all kinds of dangerous people. Like apostates..."

"... and asses. I see where you're trying to go with this," Alistair said with a wry smile.

"I saw Morrigan's face when Flemeth talked about their home being destroyed and overrun by the Blight," Bannon said. "She's as dedicated as anyone to stopping it."

Alistair nibbled the corner of his lip and contemplated that. "All right, so... maybe 'keep your enemies close,' and keep them pointed at the darkspawn."

Bannon tapped a finger on his temple then pointed it at Alistair. "Now you're using your noggin."

Alistair snorted. "Dangerous as that is." He felt better for having talked with Bannon. Well, talked at him. He still didn't trust Morrigan fully, but he felt more secure in their ability to watch her and judge the danger. He smiled. "So, do you think the others have started lunch without us? We'd better hurry." He turned down the road.

"Not a chance," Bannon said, trotting to catch up with him. "You're the one with the ham, remember?"

===#===

The road led straight through some light forest - woodland, Duncan would have called it. The trees opened out at a steep hillside that rolled down to the lake's wide shore. The road cut to the right, towards part of the ancient Tevinter highways with their peaked arches. It appeared that the highway used to lead to the Tower, but several large chunks were fallen, or missing altogether. The road must lead to a switchback to get supply wagons down the hill, but a footpath broke off to take a more direct route.

Bannon and Alistair stopped at the hill crest. They could see their companions on the grassy sward below. Bannon shaded his eyes and looked at the Tower that thrust up from the lake like a giant iron needle. "Whoa," he breathed. "It's really tall!" It rose higher than any spire in Denerim that he'd seen, and the Tower of Ishal was a squat little hut in comparison.

"They say it was built with the help of magic," Alistair told him.

"Is there a vast mechanism in the foundation? And they have to lower the entire thing so the sun can pass by?"

Alistair laughed. "No, it's not quite that tall."

"You've been here before?"

"Yes, once." Alistair's tone turned dark again. Bannon looked at him. "I'd rather not talk about that."

"All right. But tell me that's not the guest quarters up there." He pointed to a rounded protuberance near the very top.

"No, that's the Harrowing Chamber. Don't worry, the guest quarters are just above the Templar barracks."

Bannon didn't know what a Harrowing Chamber was, but since they were on delicate ground, he deferred his curiosity. "And they get the bottom floor?" he asked. "So they don't have to climb all those stairs?"

"Just about. Stairs are no joke with all that plate armor we wear."

Bannon noticed he still said 'we' when talking about the Templars, even after his diatribe against them. There was something there, in the Templar Order, that he identified with. Bannon let that pass without remark as well. "Good. No way I'm climbing all the way up there."

The two headed down the slope. The sun was shining warmly today, drying out the mud and grass, and doing its best to bring on summer.

Bannon found Zevran talking with Leliana by the water's edge. "Ah, _mi patrone_, good of you to join us. I was just trying to entice Leliana into a bit of a swim."

"The water is far too cold, Zevran," the Chantry Sister insisted.

"Alas, that seems to be the bane of Ferelden: the air is too cold, the water is too cold, the women are too cold..." He made sad eyes at Leliana.

"You swim?" Bannon asked him. "I thought Antiva was a desert."

"Oh, to be sure. But Antiva City is built on the Antiva River- quite literally in some quarters. There are canals everywhere. What sort of assassin would I be if I fell into one and immediately drowned?" He cocked his head. "Do you swim? Denerim is also on a river, no?"

"The Drakon River passes through the alienage, but I wouldn't want to try to swim in it." Bannon rubbed his nose at the mere thought. "It'd probably be easier to walk over, anyway, as thick as the sludge gets."

"Ah," said the assassin, nodding in understanding. "In the Royal District upriver, the water is pure and clear. By the time it gets down to the alienage and the docks..." He made a see-sawing motion with his hand. "Not so much. But many a wealthy merchant has quarters down there, stench or no. In fact, I believe that's how they became known as the 'filthy rich.'"

"So you swim for fun?"

Zevran shrugged. "Not so much, no. But any excuse to get naked and wet is good in my book!" He leered at Leliana. "Do you not agree?"

"I'm afraid not," she told him firmly. She turned her back and went to help lay out the picnic.

"Oh, you're making a lot of headway there," Bannon said sarcastically.

"Shut up. I don't see _you_ doing any better."

"I'm too smart for that."

Zevran moved ahead to join the others around the blanket they were laying out on the grass. "Alistair."

The former Templar looked up from slicing the ham, not quite able to keep a scowl from shadowing his face. "What do you want?" he asked a bit abruptly.

"I want to apologize," Zevran said. Bannon almost fell over.

The other Warden was just as shocked. He gaped, and it took a moment for his mouth to start working again. "Y-y-you do?"

"Yes. I should probably not have said those things." By the Maker! He actually sounded sincere. Bannon wondered if he were sick. Had the witch enspelled him?

"Uh," said Alistair. "Well... I apologize for yelling." The assassin nodded curtly, prepared to let it drop. But then Alistair said, "Look, I'll make you a deal. I'll concede the fact that there are bad influences in the Chantry, if you'll admit that there are also good people working in the church as well."

Zevran's eyebrows flew up. "You mean... people aiding others, for no reason? Out of the- what?- goodness of their hearts?"

"Yes."

It was Zevran's turn to gape. His brows drew back down and together as he thought. "I have never witnessed such a thing. I find it difficult to believe it exists outside of the wondertales."

"You've never," Alistair clarified, "seen anyone, anywhere, do something for someone."

"Without an ulterior motive?" Zevran shrugged.

Alistair looked at Bannon a moment. The elf had to agree with him. Even in the alienage, grubbing for food and money, people still helped each other out. When they could. Alistair looked back at Zevran. "Well, no offense, but I have to say that Antiva must be populated entirely by arseholes." He returned to the ham, savaging it with a vengeance.

Zevran only laughed. "One cannot argue with that, my good Warden."

Morrigan said, "I hate to admit it, but I must agree with the assassin. Everyone's first priority is to themselves. Others come in a distant second, if at all."

"I do not agree," Leliana said. "What about your family?" She looked between the witch and the assassin. They shrugged. "Didn't your mother ever do anything for you? Make sacrifices for you?"

"Mother raised me and cared for me, yes," said Morrigan. "But for no ulterior reason? Certainly not. She expected loyalty and obedience from me in return."

Zevran snorted. "My mother sold me to the Crows when I was six. I think that makes it clear what her priorities were."

That pretty much killed the conversation.

===#===

The companions dawdled over their lunch. It felt good to just sit and relax, not having to worry about darkspawn lurking, stalking them. No bandits, no refugees. The sun was warm and the grass was springy. Bannon looked forward to a good night's sleep in the generous beds of the mage tower. Important people visited the mages. They'd have fancy beds. The Grey Wardens _were_ important people. 'Here's the treaty, give us your biggest quarters,' that's what he'd tell them. It's good to be the Grey Wardens.

The sun narrowly missed getting impaled by the spire, and began to slide down behind the Tower. Bannon rounded up his troops, and Alistair led them to the dock where the ferry stood.

A lone Templar stood on the pier, guarding the ferry to the Tower. He didn't bother to wait for them to get to him nor to state their business. He held up one hand. "No one is allowed in the Tower, by orders of the Knight Commander."

"We're Grey Wardens," Bannon told him. "We have business with the Circle of Mages."

"Oh, you're Grey Wardens, are you?" the Templar drawled. "Prove it."

Bannon and Alistair looked at each other. "Prove it?" the human asked. "How does one go about proving that, exactly?"

"Well, I don't know. Slay some darkspawn."

"There aren't any darkspawn here," Alistair insisted.

The Templar nodded. "Right, so toddle off, then." He presses his lips tight, but couldn't hide a smirk.

Bannon narrowed his eyes at the man. "Wardens can sense darkspawn before they appear. Perhaps your superiors would like to know if they are to be attacked at any moment."

The Templar propped himself up on his toes self-importantly, then rocked back on his heels. "If the darkspawn are coming, then you can slay some."

The elf gritted his teeth. "Fine. What do you want to take us across the blasted lake?"

Now the stalwart bastion of righteousness' eyes lit up. "Well, that lynx-eyed beauty is certainly a looker." He leered at Morrigan.

Alistair and Bannon both turned to the witch. This poor fool obviously had _no_ idea. Bannon inclined his head as if suggesting Morrigan go with the Templar.

Morrigan smiled coldly. "Oh, such a lovely young thing. Will you fall prey easily, I wonder?" Her eyes raked him over. "Or will you struggle and scream as I devour your flesh?"

"Ohhh," the Templar quavered. "She's going to _eat_ me!" His leer widened. If he wasn't careful, drool was going to start leaking out of the side of his mouth.

"Haven't you taken vows with the Chantry?" Lelaina asked pointedly.

"No," the smug Templar assured her. "Have you? Would you give them up for me? You pretty little minx!" He folded his arms, puffing up his chest.

Leliana opened her mouth to retort; Morrigan raised her hand to begin a spell of destruction; Bannon tried to think of something- anything- to say; Alistair prayed for deliverance from this disaster. But before anyone could make a move, Zevran stepped forward. "I'll handle this." They all gaped at him.

Even Sten's brow went up a notch as the Antivan moved towards the Templar with a very distinctive sway to his hips. "My my, what a deliciously handsome man you are," the elf purred.

The Templar grinned and started to nod, then blinked rapidly. "Bu- bu- uh- You're a guy!" He unfolded his arms as if in preparation to run away. But there was nowhere to go on the end of the dock.

Zevran drew an admiring hiss between his teeth. "So sexy, so virile, _and_ smart? Be still my heart!" He walked right up to the frozen Templar and ran his hands across the man's breastplate. "I do so admire a man in a suit of hard, steel armor."

The Templar backed up a step, a small, strangled sound that sounded rather like "ack" escaping his throat.

The assassin put his hand pre-emptively on the Templar's swordhilt. "Such a _long_ sword you have," he leered, drawing the word out. He rubbed the palm of his hand provocatively over the pommel. "Are you very skilled in its uses?"

"I- I- I- ulp!" Skittishly, the man backed away, but Zevran followed him relentlessly, licking his lips.

"Are you wearing anything under that sexy dress of yours?" the elf asked brightly. "Because you know I want to get down there right now and-"

"WAAAAAAAAUGH!" Just then, the Templar took another step back, but he'd run out of pier. He toppled over into the water with a mighty splash.

Zevran shrugged. "Or," he said, "if not, we can just steal your boat." He turned and hopped in.

"Okay!" said Bannon, joining the assassin. Morrigan and Sten started to follow.

"Wait," cried Alistair. "We can't just leave him to drown!"

"And why not?" the witch asked archly. "It is his own stupidity that landed him there. He deserves what he gets."

"I agree," the qunari added.

Alistair gave Leliana a pleading look, then started shucking his own armor. The lay Sister bit her lip a moment, then darted to fetch a rope. Together they worked on saving the foolish Templar. Meanwhile, the rest sat waiting in the boat.

"Who is expected to row this thing?" the qunari asked.

Bannon gave him a look. "Sten, what does your book tell you?"

He lowered his brows threateningly at the elf. "The Qun tells us many things."

"It says that everyone is assigned a job based on his abilities," Bannon told him, like a teacher reciting a lesson. "To row a boat, we need someone big and strong. And who might that be?"

The qunari grumbled, but he took a seat between the oars.

Bannon turned to Zevran. "What were you going to do if he was actually interested in that?"

The Antivan spread his hands with a shrug. "Then he would right now be _very_ distracted and you could steal his boat. Or, you could wait a few minutes, and he would be happily rowing us across with a big smile on his face."

"Seriously?" Bannon's face wrinkled half in disbelief and half in repulsion.

"And why not? He is a very handsome fellow, no?" He ignored his patron's doubtful look and gazed past Bannon. "Such a straight spine, broad shoulders...; that blond hair, those rugged good looks... So witty and charming. Mmm, that sexy upper-class Ferelden accent..."

Bannon twisted around wondering what the Antivan was going on about. He couldn't have gotten all that just from talking to the lech for two minutes. All he saw was Alistair and Leliana hauling the unfortunate Templar onto the dock, water streaming from him. Alistair had dove in and managed to get the Templar free from his weighty chest plate and back armor, as well as the soaked skirting (and yes, he was wearing something under it). Bannon shook his head. Sometimes, he didn't understand that Antivan at all.

===#===

* * *

><p><em>End Notes:<em>

Zevran: "What sort of assassin would I be if I fell into one and immediately drowned?"

- ::ahem:: Altair!


	18. Howe's Lament

Howe's Lament

**Content:**

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: some

Violence: no

Nudity: none

Sex: no

Other: none

_Author's Notes:_

I hate Howe. I really hate this guy. All my characters hate this guy. This is the first time I've called him by his first name. So, another little insight into the lives of our antagonists and what they're going through in Denerim.

Note: I'm using MUC (Made Up Crap(tm)) about the Howe family, and not necessarily following the wiki or interviews or common knowledge. Just roll with it.

Margaret is Howe's late wife.

* * *

><p><strong>Howe's Lament<strong>

===#===

_Denerim_

Rendon Howe burst into the castle's chapel. The soldiers standing about tensed, coming to rigorous attention. He paid them no mind, he only had eyes for the body laid out on the bier. The Chantry Sister who had been cleaning Thomas' face melted away as he approached. Rendon put his hands on his son's chest. The need to touch, to know this was real warred with his need to deny this was even happening. He resisted the urge to shake Thomas roughly, to demand he awaken. It wouldn't do to look foolish and desperate in front of these men. Howe was a hardened warrior.

He turned, walling off his emotions behind a facade of hard stone. Not all of them: his rage bled through, barely controlled. Rendon clenched his teeth to hold back from slaughtering anyone. "Who is in charge here?" he growled low. "What happened to my son?"

One of the men stepped forward; young, Thomas' age. He was clean-shaven and had short brown hair, too short for a proper warbraid. "Lieutenant Reid, ser." His voice was nearly steady, but his gaze withered under the heat of Rendon's glare. "We came to the bridge at Berensford. Bann Oswyn was there; his troops held the bridge."

Howe felt his lips peel back in a snarl. "And how is it that none of you are wounded from this battle?" Not a scratch, the cowards!

Reid licked his lips. "Bann Oswyn challenged Bann Thomas to single combat, for possession of the bridge."

"_What?_"

"They duelled, my lord."

"And you just stood by and watched?" Rendon yelled.

"My lord, Bann Thomas agreed to the terms. They fought honorably."

Rendon squeezed his eyes shut, clamped his mouth closed. _The bloody fool!_ Reid continued hesitantly into the lull. "Bann Oswyn allowed us to retrieve the-"

"Silence!" Rendon paced beside the bier, trying to shake the images from his head. Thomas fighting for his life, and these worthless cowards doing nothing! "You," he snapped at their incompetent officer; "You take your men to the Free Marches. You find my son Nathaniel, and you bring him back here."

"My lord...?" Reid quavered. "Now?"

Yes, Rendon knew there was a civil war on! But he couldn't stand having these men anywhere near him. "Yes, now! Take the very next ship heading to Ostwick. And Reid," he growled, fixing the man with a steel glare, "if you don't find him, don't bother coming back."

Reid licked his lips nervously again. "As you say, my lord." He bowed and moved out the door. His men hurriedly followed suit.

Rendon turned back to his dead son. He touched Thomas' cheek; it was still damp from the Sister's cloth. Damp and cold. Rendon smoothed the wetness away with his palm, but he could not impart warmth back into that chilled flesh.

The arl's vision blurred, candles around the room's perimeter drawing bright streaks across the bier. "You damned fool, what have you done?" Rendon bit his lower lip until it stopped quivering. "Didn't I teach you better than this? War is not a game! War is not won by handsome heroes doing chivalrous deeds. War is ugly. It is blood and shit stinking up the battlefield. It's cold mud and living on rations you wouldn't feed a dog."

He gripped the edge of his son's breastplate, shook him. "Honor and glory are for stories, boy! How many times have I told you? Your job is to stay alive, kill your enemy, any way you can. If he is weaker, crush him! Show no mercy. If he is stronger than you, you do what you have to! Cut off his food, poison his water. Cripple him with traps. Stab him in the gut and run away, let him bleed out, but for Maker's sake-!" he shook the cold body again- "Live! Don't... don't throw your life away..." His voice broke apart and all he could do was bow his head and cry. He tried to hold his son, to embrace him one last time, but the lifeless body was unresponsive, the cold armor unyielding. "Oh, Thomas," Rendon blurted, "why didn't you listen to me? I'm so, so sorry, Margaret."

===#===

The funeral was held at the castle, attended by a full contingent of honor guards. Not Thomas' men. Howe hoped they'd seen the last of those craven bastards. If they sank in a storm, that would suit him just fine. Or perhaps they'd be taken by Rivani pirates, or Tevinter slavers. Except then he'd need to find someone trustworthy to bring back his wayward son. Nathaniel, his youngest child, had always been a black sheep. But now he was Rendon's only son, and he had to try to reconcile with him. They responsibilities of Thomas were now to be Nathaniel's.

Rendon's mien was hard stone, like the walls of the castle, the city walls, Fort Drakon. The hardness of a warrior. It was bitterly ironic that Thomas was accorded a near-royal funeral, while Rendon was still struggling to elevate himself to teyrn. Why Bryce Cousland was granted the title and not Rendon Howe was simply a matter of politics. King Maric granted the title to his friends, Bryce and Loghain. Rendon had fought beside both men, had been their friend, but that wasn't high enough on the rungs for him to be considered for the title. Rendon never begrudged Loghain his teyrnship. Envied, yes, but never begrudged. The man understood war, and he knew what it took to win one.

As for Bryce Cousland's title... that was now a moot point.

The pyre bathed the courtyard with heat, but still, Anora's hands were cold when she took his. "We are so sorry for your loss," she said, her blue eyes looking into his own. She said it with heartfelt intensity and expression, but Rendon bristled. What did she mean, 'we'? Herself and her father? The whole court? Was it the royal 'we'? Cold and aloof and impersonal. Rendon mouthed some equally meaningless gratitude.

Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, a warrior's weight and strength. Rendon half-turned to look at Loghain. The general said nothing. At first, he dropped his gaze, granting Rendon respectful privacy for his grief. Then the man raised his eyes, met his friend's gaze unflinchingly. Loghain's eyes were dark with compassion; he knew what it was like to lose family like this. He squeezed Rendon's shoulder with silent understanding. Rendon took a steadying breath, then nodded his thanks.

The old friends, old war comrades, needed no words.

"Come by my study this evening," Loghain said, his voice soft and low. "We'll give him a proper warrior's send-off."

Again Rendon nodded, grateful.

===#===


	19. The Broken Circle

The Broken Circle

**Content:**

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama/Humor

Language: some

Violence: not yet

Nudity: none

Sex: no

Other: none

_Author's Notes:_

This section gave me no end of trouble. Blood Magic? Abominations? Demons? A suicide mission where the only way to escape is to rescue some guy who might not even be alive? Nobody wanted to do this! Hopefully, I managed to convince you that they're convinced. If not... eh, suspend some disbelief?

Spellchecked at spellcheck -dot- net.

* * *

><p><strong>The Broken Circle<strong>

===#===

Greagoir leaned his elbows on the scarred oak desk and ran his fingers back through his iron-grey hair. The numbers on the reports swam before his tired eyes. How many wounded, how many dead, how many rations were left, it would all add up to how many days they could hold the Tower. A handful, no more. The Circle was Broken.

Nine days ago, a rent in the Veil allowed a mass of demons to cross over from the Fade into reality. The Templars and Senior Enchanters moved quickly to repair the damage, and to battle the demons. They thought they had it contained, but that was not the last time it happened, and all too soon it became clear that it had not been an accident.

The next morning, over a dozen knights Templar turned on their brothers and sisters and began slaughtering them in the barracks. They were mostly older knights, men Greagoir had served with for years. The confusion and hesitation they'd sown nearly crippled the Templar forces. Greagoir realized his men must be enslaved by Blood Magic, and ordered them slain.

Once order had been restored, they set out to hunt down this Maleficar. By that time, the Tower was at war. Greagoir's forces met up with a group of Enchanters and Senior Mages who were battling demons and abominations unleashed by the Maleficarum. And oh yes, it was becoming quite clear that there was more than one. Fire, ice, and lightning barreled through the hallways, reaping victims, shattering shields. More than one young Templar had succumbed to the mind control and had to be put down.

At last, they made it to the apprentice quarters and began evacuating them. Greagoir had sent the main body of his troops onward, under Ser Cullen and Senior Enchanter Warren.

He lost nearly half his remaining men when one of the apprentices immolated herself in the barracks. Greagoir had to order all the apprentices killed on sight. They were just too young, too weak to resist the demons and Maleficarum. They hadn't even faced their Harrowing yet.

Fully-invested mages should have the fortitude to resist demonic possession, at least. But for Maker's sake, Maleficarum- in Ferelden! Greagoir rubbed one sword-calloused palm over his face. Irving had once told him that he had acquired some special immunity to the mind control of Blood Magic. Something that had happened to him when he was just a boy. He would never give Greagoir any details, and vehemently insisted it could not be used as a technique to protect others. As far as every other mage in the Tower, they were likely working for Uldred- either willingly, or as mindless pawns. Greagoir had ordered the Tower sealed. It was beyond saving. If they couldn't contain it here... Ferelden would become another Tevinter.

"Commander!" A young Templar burst into his office. "Someone is here-"

Greagoir's head shot up. He saw an elf and a knight. Could it be the messenger from the Chantry? "Who are you?" His gaze flicked between them. "You're not a Templar." Behind them filed in a pair of young women, one in the wild garb of a barbarian tribe, a looming giant qunari, and another elf. "You're not from Denerim, are you?" The human and elf looked at each other in confusion. "Did you bring the Right of Annulment?"

Clarity flashed in the young man's eyes. "Right of Annulment?" he repeated. "What's happened here?"

"What's the Right of Annulment?" the elf asked.

"It's...," the man started, as if he knew, but then he simply ended with, "It's bad."

"Let's start with who you are and why the guard let you in here," Greagoir demanded, taking control of the situation. He stood and picked his gauntlets up off the desk.

The elf said, "We're Grey Wardens. This is Alistair, and my name is Bannon. We're gathering allies to combat the Blight, to prevent its spread across Ferelden. We have a treaty here, promising aid from the Circle of Mages." He hesitated slightly. "Let me guess, that's not going to happen."

"I'm sorry." Greagoir sighed, feeling the burden of responsibility pressing weightily upon him. "The Circle is no more."

"No more?" the Chasind spoke up. "How is that possible?"

The young knight, Alistair, said, "There were hundreds of mages living here. They can't... all..." He groped for words.

The red-headed woman came forward, her clear blue-grey eyes like pools of calm amidst the storm. "Please, Knight Commander, tell us what has happened here. It may be, by the Maker's will, we can help."

Greagoir took a breath. "One of the Senior Enchanters, a man named Uldred... He's a Blood Mage. He's staged a coup. He's subverted the enchanters, they've released demons in the Tower. It's... it's hell unleashed in there. We can't contain it. We- I've sent to Denerim for the Right of Annulment."

"Please, Knight Commander," the redhead said, touching his arm imploringly. "Is there nothing we can do?"

"Surely some of the mages fought back," Alistair said. "They couldn't all be supporting this... this madness."

"There is resistance," Greagoir said. "Or was. But Uldred is capable of controlling a person's mind, of turning his enemies into allies. There is no way we can be sure someone is not under his power. I've already lost too many men to thralls."

"What if we defeat this man Uldred"? Greagoir stared at the young woman. So did her companions. She must have felt the weight of their eyes upon her, for she turned imploringly to them. "We must try. We cannot let innocent people be slaughtered like cattle. We must do something."

"If we go in there, what's to keep this Maleficar from taking over _our_ minds?"

"The Maker will protect us."

"From your lips to the Maker's ear," the elf replied skeptically.

"We can help you fight this evil," the woman insisted, turning her unwavering gaze back upon the Knight Commander.

Greagoir could hardly believe what he was hearing. But if there were the slightest chance... "I'm not willing to risk my remaining men. The doors must stay sealed. If you wish to go in there, I will not stop you, but I will not unseal the Tower until I have the word of the First Enchanter Irving that the threat has been neutralized."

"How do you know he's even still alive?" Bannon asked him.

"The wards that seal the door are keyed to Irving's aura. The fact that they are intact tells me he still lives. Bring him safely to the doors, and he can open them. If not," he added direly, "we can only assume you have fallen under the spell of the Maleficar."

The elf looked at the young woman. "Bannon," she said to him, "these people are our allies. You must see that we have to help them."

"All right, we can discuss it," the elf said with a resigned sigh. "Commander, do you have somewhere we can talk amongst ourselves?"

"Use my office," Greagoir said. "I need to check on my men." He had to see to their morale. He had to judge whether they would follow him if he decided to give the command to wipe out the Circle without waiting for authorization from the Chantry.

===#===

Bannon took Greagoir's chair behind the desk. And why not? Wasn't he in command here? Unconsciously, he mimicked Greagoir's pose, rubbing his temples. Another ally had been yanked out from under them. Sometimes it _wasn't_ so good to be the Wardens. He let out a pent-up breath. "All right, the question is, do we want to go into the Tower and try to face whatever is in there? The mages are valuable allies, but they won't do us much good if we end up dead. Alistair, what do you think?"

He looked at Alistair. The ex-Templar looked stricken, a bit pale. "I... I don't know." He twisted his hands together.

Leliana said, "Bannon, please listen. We must help the mages."

"'Tis no concern of ours," Morrigan insisted. "What happens here is the inevitable result of the actions of the Templars and mages who live like this."

With a frown marring her porcelain brow, Leliana brushed past Morrigan to come to Bannon's side and touched his arm. "The Maker wants us to do this. We must save the mages."

"The Maker told you this?" he said, trying not to sound too dubious.

"I know the others doubt me, but you have faith," she said, leaning on his arm in a most disturbing manner. "I had a dream. There was a robed figure bearing a light in the darkness. I thought... that it was a Chantry priestess, but now I know it to be a mage. This is what the Maker means for us to do."

Bannon pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. More crazy dreams. If the Maker wanted the mages saved, he could have sent better help. "Alistair, how dangerous is it in there?"

"Well, you heard the Commander. Abominations... alright, fine, they're not much worse than darkspawn. But Maleficarum? On top of everything?" He chewed his lip in worry. "I want to help the mages, but... Even the regiment of Templars here can't handle that."

"Showing their usual competence," Morrigan scoffed.

"Templars have been running the Circle for hundreds of years, thank you very much!"

Once more, Bannon had to cut off another round of bickering. He swore he'd lock them in a private room the first opportunity he got. "Look, name-calling and taunting is useless right now. Morrigan, in all honestly, how dangerous is this Blood Mage?"

"Believe it or not," she said, "Mother and I do not practice Blood Magic." She shot a look at Alistair, who mumbled something that even the elf couldn't hear. The witch returned to Bannon's question. "'Tis true that the art of Blood Magic allows a mage to take over the mind of another person, to turn them into a helpless puppet, enslaved to the Maleficar's command. However, 'tis not as easy as fear and your Chantry hysteria would have you believe. A mage can't simply draw a few drops of his blood and completely subsume your will. A strong-minded person can resist the spell. It takes the victim's blood and a great deal of time to turn one into a full thrall."

"The Maker will protect us," Leliana said forcefully.

To which Bannon replied, "The Maker protects those who don't go and do stupidly dangerous stuff. Zevran, what do you think?"

As usual, the assassin seemed unperturbed. "I go where you go, _mi patrone_. You have given me freedom, and a chance to live when by all rights you should have snuffed my life out without a second thought. I would follow you into the Blackened City itself." Again, he actually sounded sincere. Had he been practicing? Or... Bannon didn't have time for speculation.

"So you think this is suicide, too."

"Not necessarily, no." Zevran tilted his head. "A mage is a nearly unstoppable foe, when they are prepared. But," he emphasized, "the converse is also true: when _un_prepared, they are weak and quite vulnerable. This coup started... what? A week ago? And the Templars haven't been fighting them; they merely shut the doors." He paced a turn or two, laying out his thoughts. "Locked doors are hardly a problem for powerful mages, yet they have not come forth to finish off these last few Templars. That means they are still fighting each other. They do not expect the Templars to attack without reinforcements. They certainly don't expect a small group to infiltrate the tower." He stopped and looked Bannon in the eye. "I have killed a few mages in my time. If you can get close to them without their detecting your presence, one stab is all it takes. And you do not get a fireball to the face." He grinned. "As for Blood Magic and mind control, they have to know we are there, first, before they can even make an effort to attempt it."

Bannon tapped a thumbnail against his teeth. If they went in there, they had to succeed or die. They couldn't retreat, couldn't change their minds, couldn't escape. The thought of being confined like that, trapped, gave him a very bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. And what about the Blight? If the last two Grey Wardens of Ferelden perished here, what would happen to the nation?

"This discussion is pointless," Sten said. "The beasts have cast off their semblance of men. They must all be destroyed."

"There have to be some survivors," Bannon said. "Greagoir said some of the mages didn't join this faction staging the coup. The Templars can rescue them."

"Well, but they won't," Alistair said. "That's... that's what the Right of Annulment is for."

"Which," the witch asked pointedly, "is what, exactly?"

"It is the order to nullify the Circle. To..." Alistair faltered, unable to meet her uncanny gaze. "To kill all the mages."

She blinked. "All of them? Just like that?"

"Not 'just like that,'" Alistair said. "It is only used in the most dire of situations."

"It is inevitable," the qunari said, his voice gravelly. "This failure of your methods to contain your _saarebas_ should be noted to the Arishok."

"That's what they're waiting for?" Bannon asked, looking at Alistair. "For more manpower and orders to go in there and start slaughtering people?" He looked towards Zevran. The Antivan's eyes darkened.

"Yes," Leliana said soberly. "If the Circle becomes corrupt, if there is no other solution, the Right of Annulment exists, granting the Templars the power to execute all the mages."

"This is beyond belief!" Morrigan snarled. "This lofty, idealistic Chantry of yours condones mass murder?"

"Greagoir wouldn't have requested it if he felt there was any hope of saving the Circle," Alistair said.

Bannon tuned out their bickering and rubbed one hand over his face. _This isn't our fight,_ he thought to himself. _We're Grey Wardens. We need to stop the Blight. We fight darkspawn and archdemons._

They fought the twisted darkspawn mages. Really, how different could that be from an Abomination? Hell, Abominations weren't that smart. From what he'd seen of Connor's possession, and what Morrigan had said about demons being inexperienced with reality, they could be tricked, or fooled, or cajoled. Easily distracted.

He licked his lips. It wasn't any more or less insane than fighting hordes of ghostly undead, he argued with himself. This time, we have a choice, his self argued back. But, dammit, he _wanted_ to do this. Why? Against all rationale and logic, why?

Because troops of soldiers slaughtering everyone inside the walls, no matter how innocent, just because of what they _might_ do... was just another Purge.

"We're going in."

"What?" Morrigan barked. "Are you out of your-? Oh, of course you are!" She threw up her hands and turned away.

"Just a second ago, you were complaining about letting the Chantry slaughter mages," Bannon said heatedly. "There's a chance we can stop that."

"No," said Sten.

Bannon stood up and came around in front of the desk to confront the giant. "You said you would join us, and follow my orders."

"I agreed I would fight darkspawn and be slain by them. Not by mages."

"So you are afraid, then." Bannon felt the others shrink back as he tried to goad the qunari. Great vote of confidence, guys.

"You are a blind fool if you are not," was Sten's only reply. His voice didn't even heat up.

"All right. Stay here with the Templars. If we don't return, you can join them in their Purge."

The witch folded her arms. "Don't expect me to throw away my life for these fool sheep, either."

"Morrigan, I'd like a word in private. The rest of you, prepare." Bannon looked to each of them in turn. Leliana looked ecstatic, almost worshipful. Zevran had a faint hint of approval on his face, Alistair more so. Sten... well, Sten was Sten. He walked out silently. The others followed. Leliana latched onto Alistair and mentioned something about prayer in the chapel.

Once he was alone with Morrigan, Bannon leaned back against the desk. She eyed him warily. "Look," he said, "I know you are as dedicated as anyone to stopping this Blight." She nodded once, almost subconsciously. So far, so good. "Tell me, which is more powerful: an army of mages, or an army of Templars?"

She scowled. She didn't deign to answer, recognizing the leading question. He spread his hands, palms up. "It doesn't matter if the mages defeat these demons, or this Blood Mage. Even if they do, as soon as the Templars get here, they're all going to die anyway."

Morrigan tried to hide it, but he saw- or thought he saw- something behind those eyes. He went on. "Greagoir promised troops of Templars to honor the treaty. But do you seriously want to go up against the horde, with you as our only mage?"

Something definitely shifted this time. "You'd have absolutely no healers," she murmured.

"Yeah, we're going to get slaughtered," Bannon agreed. "So, if we all die here, locked in the Tower, it just saves us all the trouble and heartache in between." He shrugged nonchalantly.

Her brows lowered at him. "You're very persuasive, elf."

"Well, I try," he said lightly.

She sighed. "All right. Let's get on with this."

===#===

Bannon found the quartermaster and arranged for the storage of their bulkier items. He also bargained for every drop of healing potion they could spare. He asked the fellow if they had any charms to ward off mind control. The Templar only told him, "Keep the light of Andraste in your head, and a prayer to the Maker in your mind."

Bannon turned to Zevran, who'd turned up at his side like a bad copper as soon as he'd left the Templar Commander's office. "Get your weapons."

"All of them?"

"All the ones you'll think you'll need."

Zevran didn't waste time grabbing his swords, daggers, knives. "What about my pack? My poisons?"

Bannon hesitated, but why not? He shrugged and waved an open hand. Zevran pounced on his pack and began rearranging the contents, sorting out the extraneous items he could leave with the quartermaster. His poisons weren't in there, but he made free with Leliana's pack and began carefully lining up small bottles. "You trust me now, my cautious _patrone?_ I am honored."

"Yeah... seems kinda redundant though, trying to kill us while we're on a suicide mission."

Zevran shot him a glance. "The Crows never kill their teammates while on a mission. Is bad for the mission."

"They kill them afterward?"

The assassin chuckled. "That depended on how useful they were. And if you could get away with it. The Masters encouraged competition between the Crows, but only to a point. One couldn't go around killing his fellows. That required a great deal if finesse. Here." He pulled a dark vial from the lineup. "Would you like me to show you how to coat your blades with poison?"

"Does that work on demons?"

"Who knows?" Zevran shrugged. "But any edge we can give ourselves will surely not be wasted, no? I do know for a fact that poison works _very_ well on mages."

"All right." Bannon took out his swords.

"Alas that I do not have any more explosive jars," Zevran lamented. "They are horrible for jobs requiring stealth, but in an all-out fight?" He grinned bloodthirstily. "Nothing is more fun!"

Bannon had to laugh and shake his head. They might be heading into dire peril, but the assassin made it seem nothing more than an exciting romp. That alone made it almost worth the trouble of sparing his life!


	20. Into the Tower

**Into the Tower**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Action/Adventure/Drama

Language: some

Violence: yes

Nudity: one scantily-clad demon (f)

Sex: no

Other: none

_Author's Notes:_

Sorry about the cliffhanger. My brain refused to go further this week. It was either this, or delay another week in posting.

* * *

><p><strong>Into the Tower<strong>

===#===

The great doors shut with an ominous boom. This was it, then, they had to extract this Irving fellow or perish. The companions stood poised at the end of a grand hallway that curved gently to the left. The walls stretched heavenward, the ceiling lost in shadows. Tall statues lined the hall at regular intervals. Some bore globes of light in their hands, and this was the source of illumination.

Bannon had his right hand up, fingertips brushing the hilt of his sword. He strained his senses for any sign of the monstrosities inundating the Tower. It was eerily silent, and the still air carried a faint tang of blood. Bannon thought it must be from the wounded Templars who had evacuated through here. There weren't any signs of a battle.

When nothing continued to happen for a few more minutes, he relaxed slightly. "Well," he said slowly to his companions, "anybody feel the urge to attack each other?"

"Actually," Alistair said, "I feel like smacking Morrigan. But that's how I normally feel."

Morrigan gave him a slit-eyed glare, jutting her lower teeth forward. "You, Alistair, are the safest one of us. I don't think any mind-control spell could hit a target that small."

"Ha ha," Alistair growled.

Leliana and Zevran chuckled nervously, and Bannon had to join in. "It is as I said, no?" Zevran insisted. "They are too busy to notice our little intrusion."

===#===

The first floor was filled with meeting and storage rooms. The next contained the Templar barracks, as Alistair had mentioned. The smell of blood was stronger here, and the smell of ash and smoke. There were bodies piled thick within the first room they checked, where the Templars hadn't the resources to carry them out.

"They-they're children," Bannon said, looking over the carnage.

Alistair said, "It's the apprentices. Greagoir said they weren't strong enough to resist the demons."

Leliana laid a hand on Bannon's arm. "They are in the Maker's light now." Bannon felt a chill. This was worse than a Purge. "Come away." Leliana tugged him back and closed the door.

"I thought you didn't condone the murder of innocents," Zevran said to Alistair.

"I don't! I didn't say... Look, Greagoir was here; I wasn't. He's in command. He knew what he was doing. If even one Abomination got loose-"

"Ah, so the _execution_ of so-called innocents is more palatable to you."

"Knock it off!" Banon yelled at them, before Alistair tried to throttle the assassin. "Let's go. What happened here doesn't concern us. We have real threats to deal with." He shot Zevran a warning look. The assassin closed his mouth, his expression unreadable.

===#===

"It's coming through!"

"Stand back!"

Bannon heard women's voices. He drew his weapons and trotted around the curve of the hallway with Zevran at his heels and the others not far behind. He skidded to a halt and his companions fanned out.

There were three mages in the hall; they were facing the other way, staves poised to strike. Before them was a glowing liquid barrier of energy. And indeed, something misshapen was trying to push its way through. Its maw opened in a moaning roar.

The barrier stretched, thinned... but would not break. The demon slumped back.

"It's giving up," the young woman on the left said in shaky relief.

"Not yet," the older woman in the middle said, her voice strong. "Don't drop your guard, Petra!"

The floor under the barrier blackened and began to sizzle. Something oozed out of the stone and began to take shape as a spindly arm, four long talons.

"Come on, then," the grey-haired woman growled. Her companion mages aimed their staves, but she halted them. "Wait until it fully manifests."

The thing that struggled up through the melted stone looked a lot like that Ash Wraith Bannon had 'discovered' in the Wilds, but it glowed molten as it gained strength. It finally pulled free and lunged for the mages. The young woman and the man on the right unleashed their magic. A dual blast of frost and snow hit the demon and started to melt. Yet in another few seconds, the cold overcame the lava's heat, and the beast was momentarily frozen. It was clear it wouldn't remain that way for long, but it didn't have to. The elder mage cast a large rock from her staff and the impact shattered the demon. Little steaming puddles littered the doorway.

"Well done," the woman said. The young man breathed and audible sigh of relief as the three of them relaxed and rested their staves upright. They began to turn, and that's when they suddenly noticed the armed party behind them. Instantly, they prepared to defend themselves. The Wardens' group responded in kind.

And Bannon was out in front, right at the centerpoint of the conflagration. "Whoa! Whoa," he said, quickly sheathing his weapons. In his haste, he had a little trouble getting the blades aimed properly- needed more practice, that. He kept talking, to cover up any awkwardness. "Easy! Hang on... we're friends." He held out his empty hands and smiled his most innocent smile.

The mages narrowed their eyes. Bannon just smiled more. Then he turned to Alistair and waved at him to put his sword away. Hesitantly, the former Templar did so. Bannon looked to his other side. Leliana lowered her sword, but Zevran only watched the mages.

"Who are you? Who sent you?" the young man asked.

The older woman said, "Well, you're not Templars." She planted her staff upright. "Petra, Keenan." Grudgingly, her companions followed suit. "How did you get in here?"

Bannon glanced at Zevran, who finally put up his blades. Smooth as silk, the showoff. Bannon yanked his attention back to the mages. "Commander Greagoir let us in. We're Grey Wardens; we're here to rescue the First Enchanter."

"Grey Wardens?" The elder mage said, wrinkling her brow in thought. "Why did the Grey Wardens come here?"

"The Wardens have a treaty with the mages," Bannon said. "We're allies during the Blight, so we've come to help."

"You mean you're here to make sure there are sufficient mages to come to your aid," she said, narrowing her blue eyes. She was shrewd, this one. Bannon just shrugged with a lopsided smile. There was no point in denying it. "Not that we're not grateful," the mage pointed out. "But we were wondering when the Templars were coming. We've been here for days, but the doors remain sealed."

"The Templars have been decimated," Alistair said. "They sent to Denerim for reinforcements. And..." He hesitated. "The Right of Annulment. I'm sorry."

The old woman's face paled and she wobbled slightly. The other woman, Petra, took her arm. "Wynne, are you all right?"

"Yes." She rubbed her face and straightened her spine. "Yes, it was just a shock." She took a breath. "So Greagoir has deemed the Circle a total loss. I..." She rubbed her forehead.

"They can't!" the mage, Keenan, said. "Th-they can't kill us! We haven't done anything. The children- We can't have saved the children just so... so the Templars can..." His voice broke off as he started shaking uncontrollably. Petra went to him, offering what mute comfort she could.

Bannon felt a sympathetic shudder. It was just like hearing a Purge was coming, but in the alienage, at least you had a chance to hide, to escape. These mages were trapped in their own Tower.

Before he could open his mouth, Morrigan had to have a say. "There is no use crying about it. You let yourselves be corralled here like sheep, you can expect to be slaughtered like them as well."

"Morrigan!" Leliana gasped in shock.

"'Let'?" The old woman's voice hardened. "Did you say we _let_ the Templars take us?" She stalked forward. Morrigan shifted nervously, then stood her ground. "I was taken to the Tower when I was seven years old. Some of the mages were as young as five! Exactly what do you expect a little child to do against four armed men?"

Morrigan for once seemed at a loss for words. She looked away from Wynne's stony glare.

Bannon glanced at Alistair, whose mouth was forming a perfect little 'o' of surprise. Admiration filled his eyes, though. The elf stepped in to restore political balance. "Now look. If the Templars took the south road to Denerim, it's likely they'll never make it. Ostagar and Lothering are lost to the Blight." The mages expressions shifted uncertainly. The stay of execution was doubtlessly good news. The slow death of Ferelden was not. Bannon pushed on. "Greagoir said the doors were somehow linked to this Irving fellow. Since they're still locked, he has to still be alive. All we have to do is rescue him and get him down here. He can open the doors, and Greagoir will call off the Annulment." Now hope rekindled in their faces. "You three can come with us. You can help us."

The mages conferred quickly. Wynne said, "Petra and Keenan will stay here to guard the children. I'll go with you."

"Children?" asked Alistair.

In the barracks room closest to the magical barrier were a few dozen children. Most were small, which had probably allowed them to remain hidden. Several were huddled together in one of the beds, waiting for news with wide eyes. The older children, maybe twelve or so, held the littlest in their laps. Bannon was surprised to see a few elven children mixed in the group. As if they belonged there.

"Auntie Wynne! Auntie Wynne!" the little ones cried in relief to see her. They clamored to know what was going on, was it safe now, were the Templars coming to save them? Wynne dealt with them in a kindly fashion, admonishing them to be good for Keenan and Petra. She explained that she was going to help the Grey Wardens to rescue Grandfather Irving. Bannon, Alistair, and the others were regarded with wide, hero-worshipping stares. Bannon grinned a cocky, confident smile and was rewarded with adoring gazes from the girls.

Petra followed Wynne back out into the hall. "Are you sure you're fully recovered? You took quite a knock the other day."

"I'm fine, Petra. I'll reset the barrier once the Wardens and I pass through."

===#===

Now they were past two sealed barriers, and Bannon was feeling the pressure. Wynne had been quickly introduced to everyone and folded into the group. She gave them a short explanation of Uldred's attempted coup, although she didn't know what was going on in the Tower after the initial fighting. They walked the eerily quiet halls and ascended another staircase.

Zevran gave a short hiss, catching Bannon's attention. He stepped towards the assassin. "May I suggest, in such a silent venue, that someone scout ahead. Someone stealthy," Zevran added with a glance at Alistair and his clanking armor.

Bannon cocked his head, indicating to the assassin to go on. He held up a hand to stop the others.

"What are we-?" Alistair started, but Bannon shushed him.

A few minutes later, Zevran returned. "There are twelve Templars guarding the passage ahead," he reported. "They must be under a spell, for they are unnaturally still."

"How will we get past that many?" Leliana asked.

Morrigan said, "Magic, obviously. If we catch them unawares..."

"We can't attack the Templars," Wynne said, aghast.

"Templars _are_ trained to fight mages," Alistair said. "There's no guarantee you can take them all out."

"What do you suggest?" the witch asked. "We walk up and ask them nicely to let us pass?"

"I have a proposal," Zevran said. They all looked at him. "Beyond this hall is a large room. I believe I espied the mage controlling the Templars in there. If we-" here, he sidled up to Bannon- "sneak past these Templars and kill the mage, the spell might be broken, no?"

"If it isn't," Morrigan pointed out, "the two of you will be surrounded by Templars and cut off from the rest of us."

"Indeed! As soon as we strike, you must come charging to our rescue." The irrepressible assassin grinned.

So the two elves headed down the hall. "Are you sure this is going to work?" Bannon whispered when they were out of sight of the others.

"Of course." Zevran went behind Bannon and tugged at his weapon harness. "Just move smoothly, slowly." He bent close until his breath brushed over Bannon's ear. "Your leather must become like a second skin." He ran his fingertips lightly down Bannon's arm. The Denerim elf tensed so as not to jerk away. The assassin just grinned. "Remember, their helmets have small slits; they won't see you if you stay low."

Zevarn crossed to the other side of the hall, leaving Bannon with a gentle pat to his backside. Bannon clenched his teeth, feeling his face go hot in anger. That sleazy little-! Thank the Maker no one else had seen. He'd get the bastard back, but not now.

Right now, he had to concentrate on sidling low behind a row of enthralled Templars, between them and the wall. They smelled. The poor bastards must be like the row of guards that Connor's demon had forced to stand at attention for hours on end. The Templars might have been here for days.

Bannon got to the doorway at the end of the hall and slipped into the room beyond. It was a huge library, or at least a section of one. Wooden stacks stretched towards the ceiling, housing row upon row of books. They lined the walls and divided the space into narrow corridors. Lamps of magelight sat upon various tables, leaving much of the room in shadow.

Zevran was waiting for him, crouched by one of the freestanding shelves. Bannon heard voices, and as he moved into position, he saw three mages in a nook just beyond. He crouched down out of sight and, very slowly, began pulling his sword out of its sheath.

Zevran laid a finger on his lips. Bannon stuck his tongue out and rolled his eyes. What did the assassin think, he was an idiot? Zevran jutted out his jaw and gave him a hard, flat look. Then he gestured from Bannon to the mage closest to his position. The thief nodded, but quirked a brow and held up three fingers, asking about the third mage. Zevran clearly mouthed the word 'points.'

Bannon gave him a narrow look and nodded again, tensing to charge. Zevran flapped a hand at him, gesturing to wait. Impatiently, Bannon settled back a bit. What were they waiting for? He peered through a gap between a row of books and the shelf above them, watching the mages. They were arguing about Uldred's plan. Whatever it was, two of them didn't like it. The third, a younger man, was sycophantic in his support. The discussion got heated. The two older mages had their backs to Bannon and Zevran, but the last one was beyond the table. He might have time to launch a spell before either elf could get to him.

Bannon saw the third mage shake his head, then move his hand as if to rub his face. At that moment, he heard a sharp exhalation from Zevran, almost a call, but too soft to be noticeable from more than a few feet away. Bannon launched himself at his target half a step behind Zevran.

The assassin flung a throwing knife across the table with his right hand as he drew a sword with his left. The blade came out and around, right into his target's neck. Both mages dropped. Bannon felled his man at nearly the same time.

"That's cheating," he growled.

Zevran drew his other sword with a grin. "Ah, you could have made it up in Templars, if you hadn't stopped to complain," he taunted as he ran back into the hall. With a curse, Bannon followed.

The Templars were quickly dispatched. Some went into a fury, attacking anyone, even each other. A few collapsed unconscious, or mad and insensate. The left them all in the hall. The Templars could come and claim their own when they got here.

===#===

The Wardens' group pressed on, always upwards. Bannon and Zevran scouted ahead, while the rest followed. There were a great many corpses strewn about. Then some of those corpses started getting up and attacking them.

"There's definitely a demon at work here," Alistair said, yanking his sword from a particularly leathery corpse.

"So glad you're here to tell us these things," Morrigan griped. "Just imagine what we might have missed if you weren't along, enlightening us with your wisdom."

"Don't you ever get tired of hearing yourself complain? I know I do."

"All right," Bannon said. "Put a cork in it. Both of you!" Oops, did he just tell Morrigan off? "Wait here while we scout ahead." He darted off quickly before the witch could set his head on fire.

There were demons, of course. Wynne had said the amount of magic unleashed by the battling mages weakened the Veil here in the Tower. Ash Wraiths and Fire Wraiths oozed through into reality. Fortunately, they were relatively slow, both physically and mentally. Bannon couldn't tell if the poison on his and Zevran's blades was affecting them one way or the other, but they died just as easily from steel and magic.

He and Zevran were learning to work well together. When they caught sight or sound of an opponent, they'd drop into a slow stalk. After a few of these 'assassinations,' they didn't need to bother with elaborate hand signals. Once they were in position to attack, they'd lash out like a cat swatting a moth, and the target would drop in a spatter of blood.

Even with multiple opponents, they became so effective, the others almost might not have needed to bother hurrying to the fight.

Getting cocky would get him killed. They'd felled another trio of Ash Wraiths. He was up on the assassin in points, unless the slippery little cheater tried to claim points for the ones he'd helped Bannon kill. So Bannon went around the corner to get a head start on the next batch.

The two wraiths that clutched at him, he ducked easily. But the flaming Rage Demon screamed and barreled straight into him, heedless of the blades in his hands. It threw him back, and he crashed to the stone floor, cracking his head on the doorjamb. Zevran leapt over him and swung at the demon. Dizzily, Bannon noticed his left arm and the right side of his chest were on fire. "Urgh," he complained.

Alistair leapt over him before he could collect himself, and joined the fray. Leliana followed after Bannon rolled out of the way. The flames turned patches of his leathers black, then finally choked out.

"Look out!" Alistair yelled. The Rage Demon collapsed and then, moments later, exploded flames over everyone in the vicinity. Leliana and Zevran were knocked over even as they tried to retreat. Alistair deflected flames with his shield, but fell halfway onto Zevran anyway. Bannon, at the edge of the blast, fell back on his ass as he was trying to get up.

Wynne hurried to see to the injured, while Morrigan blasted the remaining ash wraiths.

"I hate being set on fire," Bannon decided. Leliana, Alistair, and Zevran groaned in a chorus of agreement.

Zevran said, "Alistair, as attractive as your ass is, please get it off me." The former Templar scrambled up, his face redder than when the flames had washed over him.

"Hold still," Wynne told them. She raised her staff and cast a spell. A blue ring of light expanded out around them and then shot heavenward. Bannon felt the healing energy erase the pain in his head and body. Too bad it left his leathers crisped. He'd better start looking for a new set. Not to mention that a helmet would come in handy.

He moved past the others to where Zevran was waiting for him. "I do believe I am ahead of you on points," the assassin said cheerfully.

"You _would_ believe that," Bannon groused. "Let's go."

===#===

They passed through three levels of barracks, the apprentice quarters, Wynne called them. They were empty.

"Where is everyone?" Alistair wondered quietly.

"Uldred must have a headquarters somewhere," Bannon said. "Does he have a room?" the elf asked Wynne. "What about Irving?"

"The Senior Enchanters have separate quarters a few floors up. Irving has an office suite above that."

Bannon groaned. More stairs. Alistair was suddenly glad of his Templar training, endless drills in full plate, jogging uphill and down, and especially those ramps on the running course. They left one's legs feeling like noodles. Alistair had always hated those with a passion. Never thought he'd be grateful.

At least they didn't have to run. The elves would sneak ahead slowly. Leliana would follow their progress and wave Alistair and the mages on when necessary. Or sometimes there'd be sounds of fighting, and they'd have to rush in. Then it was more wait, walk, wait, walk...

Sounds of arguing came from up ahead. Alistair couldn't make out the words due to his helmet, but when the voices escalated into yelling, accompanied by the cacophony of spell-fire, he rushed in.

There was a small pitched battle, mage against mage. The Maleficarum must have uncovered a pocket of resistance. The hall was filled with the flicker and flash of detonating spells. Alistair couldn't tell who was who. He took a breath and hoped to unleash a burst of nullifying energy that would douse all the spells at once. He failed. He knew the moment he started hoping it would work that he hadn't gathered the proper focus and inner strength. Willpower, not wishing, that's what drove a Templar's skills.

An ice bolt slammed into his shield and made his arm go numb with cold. He didn't know where it had come from, and quite frankly it was probably one of the mages they were trying to rescue, here. Alistair moved towards Leliana. He had to trust that she knew which mages were enemies, and that they hadn't taken control of her mind. He helped kill her targets.

The battle was short and messy. The aftermath left soot and slush, the acrid tang of smoke, and a pile of bodies. Alistair cursed underbreath. They hadn't been able to save anyone. Again.

Then someone groaned. "Help me...," came a woman's voice.

"Over here," Leliana said. She bent to help a young woman sit up. Her leg was twisted painfully under her; a swollen red-violet lump marred the side of her face.

Bannon knelt beside Leliana and pulled the mage's hands forward. He pushed back her sleeves and tilted her arms so everyone could see the tracks of self-inflicted cuts.

"Blood Mage," Alistair growled. How had the Tower become so riddled with corruption?

Wynne came to Alistair's side as the companions gathered around. "Corrine," she gasped in shock, clearly recognizing the young woman. "How could you?"

"I only wanted to be free," Corrine pleaded. "I didn't want to hurt anyone, I just wanted to live my own life. Uldred promised us freedom."

"This is not the way," Wynne said.

Bannon pulled Leliana away when the Chantry Sister tried to offer the mage a healing potion. "She's hurt badly," Leliana protested.

"She can answer some questions, first," the elf replied pragmatically. "Where is this Uldred now? How many Blood Mages does he have with him?"

"Uldred is in the Harrowing Chamber. He's using the lyrium pool there to summon demons." Corrine winced pitifully, gazing alternately at Wynne and Leliana, looking for sympathy. "He had a close following of a dozen mages, and three times as many thralls. Most of those have been given over to the demons. Them, and the mages who oppose him."

"Are there any mages left that are still fighting him?" Alistair asked. "Or Templars?"

"And where is the First Enchanter?" Bannon added.

"Uldred's mages are rounding up those who resist him, and taking them to the Harrowing Chamber. First Enchanter Irving was being taken there, the last I saw of him."

"Where is this Harrowing Chamber?" Bannon asked.

Wynne said, "It's at the very top of the Tower."

"Why am I not surprised?" the elf groaned.

"The Templars who are left," said Corrine, her brown eyes looking to Alistair to answer his question; "Some are imprisoned on the floors above. Some have fallen under the spell of demons."

"Or basically," Bannon said, "no allies. Great. Does this Uldred have any weaknesses?" The elf looked between the mage and Wynne. "Is there a secret back way into this Harrowing Chamber? A servant's entrance?"

Wynne shook her head. Corrine said, "Some of us turned against Uldred. Enchanter Niall was searching for the Litany of Adralla. He went to confront Uldred and try to free the captured mages."

"Finally, something useful," Bannon said. "We should try to catch up with this Niall."

"Please," Corrine said, her face creasing with pain. "May I have the healing draught now?"

"I don't think so," Bannon said, his voice hard.

Leliana turned to him. "You cannot be so cruel as to deny her succor."

"You can't expect us to help her," Morrigan countered. "She could very well be waiting for a chance to strike at us."

"I swear I am no danger to you!" The mage looked pleadingly at each of them in turn. "I never meant for things to go this far. All I wanted was to leave this Tower. I'll never use Blood Magic again, I give you my word."

Wynne said, "What about the people whose lives you've already destroyed with it?"

"I can make it up to them! I will devote my life to helping others. I'll join the Chantry."

Alistair frowned. "I don't think they'll have you. Prostitutes, thieves, murderers, that's all fine. Maleficarum? Oh no."

"I don't know what Chantry you attended," Leliana said to him, "but that is not the Chantry I know. They welcome all lost souls, any who seek redemption."

"Blood Magic is against everything the Chantry stands for," Alistair said.

Wynne said, "Once you learn Blood Magic, you can't unlearn it."

"But I swear," the mage said desperately, "I'll never use it again."

"We're not leaving a Blood Mage behind us," Bannon said. "Alistair."

"What?"

Bannon jerked his head at the mage. Oh. Alistair should do his Templar duty. Biting the inside of his lip, he drew his sword.

Fear flashed across the mage's face. "Please don't!" She pushed back with her arms, as if trying to flee from him. Tears spilled from her wide eyes. "Have mercy, I beg you!"

Alistair recalled the last time he'd been in this Tower. As a squire in his last year of training before taking his vows, he'd been sent to witness a Harrowing. The girl- she had been such a young slip of a girl, her curly black hair disheveled from sleep- fell under the Harrowing spell, and when she'd arisen a few minutes later, her eyes were no longer human. Ser Brockton had taken her head clean off, before she could finish getting to her feet.

The squires had gathered around, thrumming with restrained excitement at seeing their first demon. They were in awe of the Templar's power to defeat the beast. Ser Brockton's voice warmed with pride as he lectured them on demonic possession.

Alistair had been the only one staring down at the lifeless body, blood pooling on the cold stone floor, purplish in the blue light of the lyrium. And the curly-haired head a few feet away, like a discarded toy, staring blankly back at him.

"I have a sister," the mage was saying. "I haven't seen her in twelve years. Please, I didn't mean any harm. I just wanted to see my family again!"

Alistair's heart ached. What had he been saying on the road to the Tower? Mages were people, like any other. They had names! Her name was Corrine; he was trying to block it from his mind already, reducing her to 'the mage.' She looked up into his eyes and he just...

Something flashed in the corner of Alistair's eye, and with a fleshy _thunk_ she collapsed backwards in a spray of blood. Alistair stared in shock at the dagger protruding from her neck. He turned. They all turned and looked at the assassin.

Zevran shrugged. "It looked like she was about to cast a spell." The heartless bastard casually walked over to retrieve his weapon.

Alistair just felt cold and numb. He re-sheathed his weapon.

===#===

They climbed the next staircase and came to the antechamber at the top. It was free of blood and soot, but great fleshy pustules clung to the walls and pillars. Ropy intestinal tubes snaked between them, glistening in the even light.

"It looks like the Taint," Alistair said in surprise. He got no sense from it, however.

"'Tis the effects of the Veil being torn," Morrigan said. "We should be prepared to face more demons."

"It's fascinating how these demonic manifestations resemble the darkspawn Taint," Wynne said. Alistair didn't think so.

"Urgh," said the assassin, eyeing the pulsating globules with a twist to his mouth. "Makes me wish I hadn't had that extra pie at lunch."

Bannon whipped around. "_You_ ate my pie!?"

"It was not your pie. It was everybody's pie," said Zevran defensively. "Leliana said so."

"I was saving that last piece for later!"

"It did not have your name on it."

"We were supposed to share the pie," Bannon growled.

"I did share!"

"No, sharing is when everybody gets a piece, not when someone steals someone else's piece to get two!"

"Is not my fault you left it there too long."

"Do all elves squabble like little brats?" Morrigan complained loudly. "Or have you two been possessed by Childish Tantrum Demons?" This earned her a dirty look from the elves, but Alistair secretly agreed with her.

"Come on," Bannon said.

===#===

The first demon they saw was definitely female. Her narrow waist flared out into beautifully curved buttocks, but the thick, serpentine tail that descended over the cleft was completely inhuman. If the violet skin, twisted horns, and hair of purple flames didn't give it away. Definitely a Desire Demon. Parts of her, Alistair found rather fascinating... but as a whole, she was repulsive.

Her taloned hand stroked the unshaven cheek of a Templar Knight. Clearly he was not in full control of his senses. His glassy eyes stared blindly as he smiled and leaned into the demon's caress.

"Release this man at once!" Alistair said.

"What was that, my love?" the addled Templar asked.

"Nothing, my love," the demon replied in honeyed tones. "Just someone at the door. You kiss the children goodnight while I see who it is." The demon turned and came towards them, her- its- movement so graceful, she barely touched the floor. She raked them with her serpent's eyes. "Please, you are intruding on a very intimate and loving scene."

"What are you doing with this man?" Bannon asked in a no-nonsense tone.

"Only giving him what he wants most in this world: a loving family."

Bannon looked past the demon, and Alistair followed his gaze to the enspelled Templar. He had his back turned to them, his arms held out as if cradling something. He swayed, crooning a lullaby.

"A loving family is the most important thing in the world," the demon purred. "Don't you agree?" Her reflective irises seemed to fix on Alistair.

And... yes, he had to sympathize. The life of a Templar was lonely. Few found love and were granted dispensation by the Chantry to marry. But at the same time, the sight of that man enraptured by his empty arms made the hairs on Alistair's neck prickle. "It's not real," he said, pulling his gaze back to the demon.

"It is to him. He is much happier now than he could ever be in the real world, with his loving wife, his delightful children." The demon shifted her gaze between Alistair and Bannon, unconsciously touching herself and making the thin chains between her breasts sway and jingle faintly. It was horribly distracting. "I won't oppose you," the demon said. "Let me just take him away from here. We'll find a quiet home and never trouble anyone." She licked her lips and tilted her head.

"Right," Alistair drawled sarcastically. "Until he dies from eating nothing but imaginary food, and you entrap someone else."

"But I can make so many people happy," the demon pleaded. "How can that be evil?"

Bannon frowned and said, "What, so you'll be some village's Happiness Fairy?"

"We can't just let a demon loose in the world!" Alistair said. "Who knows what chaos-"

The demon whirled. "Help me, husband! There are bandits at the door! They mean to murder the children," she wailed.

The Templar turned, a snarl of pure righteous fury on his face. "Never!" He pulled out his sword as he launched himself at Alistair and Bannon.

"Shit!" The elf jumped aside.

Alistair caught the charge on his shield, which he braced with both hands. He turned with the force of the Templar's impact and threw the man past him towards Leliana and the mages. "Don't kill him!" Alistair drew his own sword. "Get the demon!" he yelled at the elves.

Bannon and Zevran split up and came at the demon from two sides. With a roar, Alistair charged in a frontal assault. The Desire Demon rose up, levitated, and cast out her arms with a shriek. Violet lightning spiraled outward, knocking all three of her attackers back.

Alistair planted his feet and raised his shield. He sent a prayer to the Maker and willed the infernal magic away. No, that didn't work either. He was supposed to gather his will first, focus it. Why was he screwing up so badly today?

The demon hit his shield and began clawing at his face through the opening in his helmet. He staggered back, turning his head. He lashed out with his sword. He hit something, but the demon was tougher than it looked.

It drew back, and Alistair followed doggedly. Bannon sprang at the demon's back, but it whirled swiftly and raked its claws across his face and neck. Simultaneously, its tail whipped around and clubbed Alistair in the side. Both Wardens went down.

Zevran flung his knife at the demon. It bounced off the rubbery flesh of the Desire Demon's breast, drawing some blood, but failing to hit anything vital. The Antivan cursed, then dove for scant cover behind a chest of drawers as the demon shot a bolt of purple magic at him.

Alistair could see a lot of blood pooling under Bannon from his torn neck. He had to end this quickly to save his fallen comrade. He scrambled up and charged. If he could just knock the demon down for a few seconds...! He slammed his shield into its hip. Because it was floating in the air, it didn't stagger or fall, it just bobbed away like a toy boat on a puddle.

Zevran threw another dagger at its back. This one stuck, just under its ribs, but it was going to take more than that to destroy the damned thing.

Alistair looked down at Bannon. He was close enough to drag the elf to safety, if Zevran could just distract the demon. A blue glow suffused Bannon's skin. His body twitched as the healing magic restored his vitality.

The demon was preparing to unleash another surge of power. Alistair gathered his will, this time with focus. But he hesitated- if he snuffed out the magic around him now, it would also cancel the healing spell, and Bannon might die.

Infernal lightning crackled around the demon's body, then lashed out. One arc whipped towards Zevran, another bored straight into Alistair's chest. His heart stopped and he collapsed to the floor.

_Maker, help them_, was his last thought.

===#===


	21. The Circle Tower

**The Circle Tower**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Action/Adventure/Drama

Language: some

Violence: yes

Nudity: offscreen

Sex: offscreen

Other: none

_Author's Notes:_

Direct continuation of the previous chapter.

* * *

><p><strong>The Circle Tower<strong>

===#===

"Young man, can you hear me? Alistair?"

Alistair opened his eyes and scrambled to sit up. The old woman, the mage, was kneeling next to him. Something was shrieking. Alistair looked over; the demon was down. Bannon planted a boot on its hips to yank his sword free.

Alistair heard a buzzing; he thought it was in his head, but it gained strength. It sounded like a distant scream. He turned his head the other way. It was coming from the Templar, held fast in a casing of ice.

The ice shattered, and the Templar surged free, his scream filling the air. "_Meaghan!_" His beloved's name tore out of his throat straight from a sundered heart. "No!"

"Look out!" Leliana screamed.

The Templar charged. He swung at Wynne; she instinctively raised her staff to deflect the blow. She fell back against Alistair, and he caught her and twisted to put his armored body between her and the knight. Fortunately for them, the Templar had no interest in anyone but the murderer of his 'wife.'

With a snarl of pure rage, the Templar leapt at Bannon, his sword cutting down from high overhead. The elf managed to get his blades up to catch the sword in their crux. It saved his life, but didn't stop the blow. Instead of splitting his skull, the sword cracked down on his forehead over his left eye. Bannon went down, bleeding.

The Templar stood over the elf and raised his sword for another blow. Zevran jumped between him and Bannon, one sword raised to block, the other snaking into the soft spot in the Templar's armor, under the arm.

Zevran was too small and lightweight to stand in the face of the human's wild assault. He didn't try; he twisted under the Templar's arm, trying to overbalance him and push him away from Bannon. He stuck close, inside the Templar's guard where the long sword was nearly useless against him. But this made his own swords equally difficult to bring to bear. Zevran spit in the man's face, causing him to flinch back.

"Down!" yelled Bannon, now back on his feet behind the assassin. He swung his sword over the Antivan elf's head, aiming for the Templar's neck. He missed and caught the man across the cheek instead.

The Templar turned and staggered with the blow. Bannon followed doggedly, closing to ram his long dagger into the armpit recently vacated by Zevran's sword. Zevran kicked the Templar from behind, sending the man crashing to his hands and knees. Bannon cut down with his sword. It bit with a crunch into the Templar's neck. The body dropped. The two elves stood panting.

Blood poured over Bannon's left eye and half his face. He staggered closer. "Dammit, Alistair, what the hell were you thinking?"

Alistair carefully helped Wynne steady herself, then he got to his feet. "Me?"

"We didn't have to fight this thing- or him! It would have left us alone." Bannon pressed a hand to his head and grunted in pain.

"Hold still a minute," Wynne told them all. "Gather 'round; I will cast a healing spell."

Alistair bit back a retort until Wynne had finished summoning the healing circle. "We can't just let a demon run loose."

"Did you forget why we are here?" Bannon retorted angrily. "We can't fight every damned demon between us and Uldred."

"No, I didn't forget why we are here. We're here trying to _save_ Ferelden."

"We're not going to save anyone if we get killed." Bannon rubbed the side of his face and grimaced at the sticky blood that came away on his half-glove. Leliana handed him a rag. "Thank you," the elf said quietly. He took a breath and turned back to Alistair. "Look. We have to get to the top of this tower and rescue the First Enchanter, before he's killed or something worse. That's the only way we are getting out of here. The demons aren't going anywhere, the Tower is sealed, remember?" Bannon wiped blood from his face with the rag.

Alistair took a breath to calm himself. He did feel guilty about the death of this man. He had to stop taking it out on the elf.

"Once we free the mages," Bannon continued, "they'll be able to help us clear out the demons. Isn't that right, Wynne?"

Alistair looked around, having momentarily forgotten about the others. Wynne nodded. Leliana was kneeling by the Templar's corpse, trying to arrange him in a more peaceful repose. Zevran and Morrigan simply stood ready, but Alistair could tell by the way they looked to Bannon that they agreed with the elf.

Bannon came up to him, folding the rag and running the clean edge along his jaw. "There. Do I still have a smutch?" He widened his dark eyes up at Alistair, looking forcefully naive.

A dry chuckle escaped Alistair's throat. "I think you'll pass."

"Don't worry," the elf told him seriously. "We just have to take one problem at a time. Yeah?"

"Yeah." He nodded. Of course, saving Ferelden was a tall order for two guys. Take it in manageable chunks. "Lead the way."

Bannon nodded and looked over his troops. "Everybody take a couple minutes." He went to the door to check that the hallway was clear.

Alistair went to help Leliana. The Chantry Sister prayed over the nameless Templar's body. Alistair prayed for them all.

===#===

Bannon paced a short way down the hall, collecting his nerves. If it hadn't been for Wynne... he gingerly rubbed his neck. Healing potions were no substitute for a mage with healing magic. Morrigan was useless in that area. Perhaps they could recruit a healer from the Circle once this mission was complete. If there were any left.

The hallway was clear, down to the next turn. He turned around to retrace his steps and almost ran into Zevran, who'd come up silently behind him.

"What are you doing sneaking up on me?"

"I wasn't sneaking," Zevran insisted, his eyes wide protestations of innocence. "I was merely moving about in potentially dangerous environment with the natural grace and stealth of the elven kind."

Bannon brushed past him. "Too bad your mouth isn't as quiet as your feet."

Zevran fell into step beside him, without any retort. Or maybe his silence was the retort. Bannon slowed to a stop before they reached the room where the others waited. "Listen... thanks for keeping that Templar from finishing me off." He could still hardly believe the assassin had jumped between him and the mad shem.

"Ah, well," Zevran replied with a shrug; "I wanted to score another point with him before you did."

"Yeah, well, too bad that backfired. I scored both." He'd just thought of that. Bannon the mighty demon and Templar slayer. "Still, thanks all the same." He turned to look directly at Zevran.

The Antivan met his eyes. For a moment, his face was clear, the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes faded as he relaxed his guard, just a bit.

Then Bannon said, "That means I'm three up on you."

"Three? How do you figure that?"

"The same way you do- take whatever number your opponent has and add a couple to it so you win."

"That is cheating!"

"Yep," Bannon said blithely.

"I never cheat!"

"Sure you don't."

The assassin scowled at him. "Admit it! You just lost count!"

"Of course I didn't."

"Are you two arguing again?" Alistair came out of the room, looking weary. The others filed out after him.

The elves looked at him, then to each other. Then back to Alistair.

"Of course not," Zevran said.

"No, not at all," Bannon agreed.

===#===

The First Enchanter had a whole floor to himself. It was well-appointed. The outer hall expanded into an oval waiting room that was thickly carpeted and furnished with cushioned chairs. Bookshelves stood against the wall, alternating with potted plants. The leader of the mages sure had it good. Of course, if he were an older gentleman, he probably didn't get out much. Way too many stairs.

Even the doors were richly carved in an antique style, with polished brass handles. Bannon tried one; it was locked.

"That's the First Enchanter's office," Wynne said.

"Imagine what fabulous, fascinating treasures might lie within," Zevran said.

To which Wynne pointedly replied, "We are not here to break in and loot the First Enchanter's things, young man."

Zevran looked at Bannon. Bannon said, "That's absolutely right. What were you thinking, you miscreant?"

The assassin shot him an evil glare, and Bannon fought hard not to smirk. He continued past the door.

They came to a branch in the corridor. Wynne led them to the right. Apparently, Irving's private chambers were the other way.

The long hall took a few turns and then once more became the gentle curve of the Tower's outer wall. It was blessedly quiet on this level. Bannon could almost imagine what the Circle Tower must be like on normal days. Quiet... and boring.

They approached another set of steps. Bannon had been wondering why the stairs didn't all connect into one continuous spiral. It would be faster to get from one floor to another. Then he realized that if anyone tried to make the climb all in one go, especially in heavy armor, they'd probably collapse. The level walking in between was a welcome respite.

"The next floor has storage and preparation areas," Wynne said. "Then above it is the Harrowing Chamber. We should expect guards." The others limbered up in preparation.

"Say, Wynne," Bannon asked. "Um... where do mages go when they have to... you know. Go?"

The shems all rolled their eye and groaned. Zevran gave him a cutting look.

"You can't possibly be thinking about that at a time like this," Morrigan griped.

"Again?" Alistair asked him incredulously.

"Why didn't you think of that before we got all the way up here?" Wynne scolded.

"Hey, elves have smaller bladders," Bannon told them with a hapless shrug. "Irving must have a garderobe. I'll just pop back and use his. Don't worry," he said at Wynne's pointed look; "I'll wash up after I'm done." Before they could argue or come up with any logic to thwart him, he turned back down the hall.

"You shouldn't go alone," Alistair said. He started after him.

"Well, this level is safe," Bannon said to forestall him. "You should stand guard here, in case something comes down the stairs. Zevran will go with me." He beckoned to the assassin.

"Well... if you're sure," Alistair said. He shot a bitter look at Zevran.

"It'll be fine. Zevran has a small bladder, too."

"I think not," the Antivan protested. Bannon grabbed his arm and dragged him off.

===#===

Once they were out of sight of the others, Bannon broke into a quick trot.

"You must really have to go," Zevran griped as he kept pace.

"Of course not. I had to get rid of them somehow."

"Oh! We are on a clandestine mission? Once more, I have underestimated you," Zevran said in admiration. "Lead the way, _mi patrone_."

Bannon had Zevran go check to see if the door to Irving's quarters was locked, while he went back and started working on the office door. The lock was very strong, and as old as the door itself, but it was kept well-oiled.

The latch clicked, and the door swung open. The First Enchanter's office did not disappoint. It was as big as all of Alarith's store back home. Bannon 'shopped' along the wall shelves. He didn't know much about magic, but anything that looked fancy and was small enough went into his pack.

Zevran joined him a few minutes later. He reported that the door to the living quarters was unlocked, and that he scouted them out quickly and found the garderobe.

"Good job. By the time we get back, Alistair will be dancing around, wanting his turn."

Zevran snickered. "I do feel more refreshed and ready for a fight, however. You sure you are going to take a pass?"

Damned assassin. But just then, Bannon completed his survey of the back wall and discovered a little recessed necessity closet in the back corner. Hah! Irving didn't stint on anything. "Check around for anything else that looks good," Bannon said, waving at the area he hadn't covered.

When he emerged (yes, that _was_ much better!), Zevran was perusing the large desk. "Are you sure the First Enchanter won't mind his things going missing?"

"Hey, we were never here. Those Greed Demons must have taken stuff."

Zevran laughed. "Look at this," he said, gingerly prodding a black-bound tome on the desk. "Do you think this is a book of evil magic? Your witch friend might like it."

"You planning on courting her?" Bannon asked, examining an ornate brass inkpot.

"Why not? You keep telling me my chanced with your lunatic nun are vanishingly small."

"Didn't Morrigan threaten you with severe bodily damage and death the last three times you spoke to her?"

Zevran let out a sigh. "She is only encouraging me to make a greater effort to seduce her."

"Oh, is that what you call it?" Bannon set the inkpot down- too heavy- and frowned at the book. He _could_ use something to soften up the witch after making her come in here and sort of yelling at her... He reached out and flipped the black cover open.

"Ack!" Zevran jumped back. "Are you mad? Evil mages put spells on those things to keep unwary meddlers from reading their secrets! You could have blown us up!"

"Pfft, right. They only say that to keep nosy, unintelligent meddlers away." There was a slip of paper inside the cover. Bannon picked it up to get a closer look. "I bet Morrigan would tell you her underwear would explode if you so much as touch it."

"Hmph."

The paper said something about Flemeth. The witch, or the legend? Perhaps Morrigan _would_ find this interesting, or at least amusing. He stuffed the book into his pack. "Let's get going."

Bannon re-locked the door on their way out. No one but us Greed Demons in here. By the time they hurried back to the stairs, Alistair had organized everyone into two more shifts.

Well, at least they'd go into battle fully prepared.

===#===

The hallway of the next level looked clear, though there were signs of battle on the floors and walls. Zevran was supposed to be scouting ahead, but he stood in an open doorway, gaping. The others moved up slowly. Alistair had an idea what they would find, judging by the sounds coming from the room. Still, he was unprepared for what he saw.

Bodies. Men, women; some of them not human. They were naked and writhing together like a pile of maggots on rotting meat. Alistair heard Leliana gasp beside him as his stomach clenched. He turned his head away. _Maker!_

Bannon slipped past them, tiptoed into the room to pull the door shut. "They're pretty busy," he said quietly. "They won't bother us." He moved past the door, slugging the assassin on the arm to get him moving as well. The others followed without a word.

Alistair bit his lip, hard. These were Templars- they'd taken vows! The demons were debasing them in the most horrible fashion. His stomach turned. It was rape, mass rape, but the others didn't seem to care.

Alistair swallowed his protest. He knew the rest wouldn't want to hear it. And... he knew there was no way to rescue those people, not from that many demons.

_Maker guard me from temptation. Shield my mind from evil influence._ He turned away to follow the others. _Maker have mercy on their souls._

===#===

They walked the long hall to the final stairway. There was an oval antechamber at the bottom of the broad marble steps. Half of the room was encased in a barrier of light that hummed with quiet power as they approached.

Three Templars were imprisoned within. Two lay dead. The third knelt with head bowed, praying. His short hair was matted and dulled with soot, his face unshaven and bristling with a wild thicket of new growth. His body swayed with the force of his prayer, a monotone litany that fell hoarsely from his lips, never stopping, never pausing.

The closer Bannon got to the barrier, the more his hair prickled. He didn't dare touch it. "Hello?" he called to the Templar. "Wynne, Morrigan, can you do something to open this?"

"Begone, foul demon!" was the only reply he got from the Templar.

The mages studied the barrier. Wynne tried a dissipation spell, which had no effect.

"'Tis the work of demons," Morrigan opined.

"I said begone! Torment me no further. I will never give in." The Templar looked up, his eyes bloodshot and haggard. "What...? You're still here?" His eyes flicked rapidly over them. "That always worked before..."

Leliana came to stand closer to the barrier. "We are not demons, ser Templar. We are here to help you."

A high-pitched laugh issued from the man's throat. "A clever ploy, demon. Tempt me no more with visions of desire!" He ducked his head again, squeezing his eyes shut and returning to his litany of prayer.

"They've driven him near to madness," Leliana said sadly.

Alistair said, "No, ser Templar; it's true. We're not demons; we're real. We're Grey Wardens."

"Ser Templar...?" the man said hesitantly. He raised his head again. "Do you not know my name?"

"I'm sorry, young man," Wynne said. "I've seen you standing guard near the library, but I'm afraid I don't recall your name."

"S-senior Enchanter Wynne?" Blearily, he tried to focus on her. "Is... is it really you?"

"Well, I hope I'm not what the demons believe you'd find to be a tempting vision of desire," the old woman said with gentle mirth.

Hope warred with paranoia and distrust on his face. "I... I can't believe it," he rasped. "No, I _won't_ believe it!" He clenched his eyes shut and threw an arm across his face. "Begone and torment me no more! Just kill me!"

"The poor bastard," Alistair said quietly to Bannon. "He's lost his mind."

The elf stepped up to the barrier. "Look, we can't break this barrier, so even if we wanted to, we couldn't offer you your freedom. Can you answer some questions that would be of use to us if we were real? Things demons don't care about?"

The Templar unfolded slightly. "Like... like what?"

"Do you know where the First Enchanter is?"

"He's gone. With the rest of them. Up there." He lowered his arm a bit more and cast a fearful gaze towards the stairs.

"Have you seen a mage named Niall? Do you know who he is?"

"He's gone up there, too. It's no use." The Templar slumped, sitting on his knees on the floor. "No one is coming back from there."

"We're going up there to stop Uldred," Bannon told him firmly. "We're going to rescue the First Enchanter and bring him back-"

"No!" Fear widened the Templar's eyes. He crawled closer and struggled to his feet. "You must kill the mages!"

Morrigan started growling, but Bannon cut her off. "We need First Enchanter Irving to open the Tower doors."

"All those mages- they're possessed!"

"They can't all be-" Alistair started.

"That's what Uldred is doing! It's the Harrowing!"

Alistair drew back. "He's... putting demons into mages?" he asked incredulously.

Bannon felt a chill. This was going to go badly. "He can't have gotten them all. Niall had that Litany thing to protect from mind control." His heart raced. Niall could be up there now, battling Uldred. And Maker knew how many Abominations. He started for the stairs, beckoning his team.

"You can't tell if a mage is possessed just by looking at them!" the Templar yelled at their backs. "Any of them could be an Abomination, just waiting for the right time to strike. You _must_ kill them all!"

Bannon shook his head. He had his own priorities. "All right, listen. Zevran, stay out of sight. Find Uldred and sneak around behind him. He's your mark."

"Understood, _mi patrone_."

"Leliana, I want you to find Niall, his allies; help them with the Litany." She nodded. "Wynne, stick with her, help the mages." He reached the top of the stairs and put his hand on the door handle, then looked back. "Alistair, you and me, we're going to confront Uldred, keep his attention on us. Morrigan, stick behind us. If you see an opportunity, blast the hell out of him. If Uldred takes over me or Alistair... well, freeze us and hopefully you all won't have to kill us." He swallowed and took a breath. "Uldred is the priority. Anyone or anything that attacks us- kill it."

Wynne and Morrigan prepared the group with defensive spells. Then Bannon opened the door and they slipped inside.

===#===

There was another stairwell, and Bannon motioned everyone to stay back as he crept to the top. The Harrowing Chamber was a wide oval, tiled with a mosaic pattern that radiated from its center. Blue light rose from the floor, fading out to midnight at the arched ceiling overhead. There were flickers of brighter light. Chains of lightning encircled several groups of people throughout the room; mages held by enchantment. Tall, shadowed figures stood guard among them.

A shimmering pool of blue liquid stood in a basin at the center of the room. It pulsed with energy. Three figures stood before it, a fourth before them on the floor, on his hands and knees, heaving painful breaths.

This was too good to be true. Uldred had his back to them, across and open expanse of floor littered only with a couple of bodies. If he or Zevran had brought their bows, they could have killed him from here. Bannon cautiously motioned the others forward, but he didn't take his eyes from the spectacle before him.

Uldred's lieutenants raised their arms in command. The mage before them was drawn upward into the air as if held by shackles. The bruises on his face and arms looked sickly in the blue light. The whites of his eyes gleamed in fear.

Uldred stepped forward and cupped the mage's chin in his left hand. "Do you accept this gift I offer?" he asked, his voice carrying across the chamber.

"Maker, help me!" the imprisoned mage squealed.

"Fool," Uldred growled. "I am the supreme power on this plane." He raised a knife and drew the blade across the mage's forehead. Blood cascaded down, covering his face in a red-violet shroud.

The mage collapsed back to the floor, the invisible shackles released. Uldred chanted in an arcane tongue, gathering power about himself. The air grew heavy as if a storm were approaching. An unheard thrum filled the chamber.

Uldred and his lieutenants reached out, seized the power, and channeled it into the helpless mage. He screamed and writhed on the floor. Bannon thought they were killing him, but it went on and on. The mage's limbs thrashed impossibly; his robes split open, his _skin_ split open, as something grew from within.

The energy flow ceased with a sudden clap of thunder, and the room went dark. Bannon blinked until his eyes adjusted to the dim blue light again.

Something stood where the mage had been. Something misshapen, barely recognizable as once having been human. The Templar had said one couldn't tell an Abomination by looking at it? It made Bannon's skin crawl. Yet Connor had looked ordinary. As Bannon stared, the thing receded within itself. The skin on its arms and chest began to regain a normal shape. It's head remained a monstrous skull, stretched within its host. It cricked its neck, stretched its arms, getting used to its new physical form.

Bannon glanced back to see if his troops were ready to move. They tensed. He nodded and turned to charge-

And came face-to-face with... something. It was a big lump on the floor, like a fat pig lying in the mud. Its face was lumpy, its limbs short and atrophied. Its ivory yellow eyes fixed him and he just froze. "So... much... trouble," the thing drawled in a deep, soporific voice. Its maw opened in a huge yawn.

Bannon found himself reflexively following suit. He tried to fight it. "Wha-?"

"Sloth Demon," he heard Wynne say. She sounded as if she were drifting away. "Try... try to fight..." Her words were cut off with a yawn.

Dammit, stop yawning. Bannon's eyes swam out of focus as his eyelids came down. So heavy... He could barely lift his arms. _Get up_, he thought dimly, as his head slowly lowered down. _No... up..._

"Too... much... trouble," the demon purred, its speech punctuated by contagious yawns. "Too much... to fight. Just... sleep. Drift... Sleep..."

Bannon pillowed his head on one arm. The mage tower seemed to float away as his eyes closed of their own volition. His brain filled with cottony warmth, and then he knew nothing more.

===_X_===


	22. Happily Ever After

**Happily Ever After**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Action/Adventure/Drama

Language: some

Violence: yes

Nudity: no

Sex: no

Other: none

_Author's Notes:_

All right, instead of taking five years to finish this blasted Blight-fic, and then another five years for the other four or five books, I've decided to just skip right ahead to the end of Origins, so we can get to the good parts.

...

No, seriously. What, you don't believe me? Where's your suspension of disbelief?

* * *

><p><strong>Happily Ever After<strong>

===#===

Wakefulness slowly flowed over Bannon, like the light of dawn infusing the eastern sky. He came to that blissful state where he was awake just enough to enjoy being asleep. His bed was soft and warm and clean, with ample blankets. His pillow was as fluffy as a cloud; he snuggled down into it with a smile.

Maker, he could stay like this all day.

Except something niggled at the back of his mind, like a pesky little mouse chewing on the baseboards. He was sure he was supposed to be... doing something. When that feeling wouldn't go away or submit to being ignored, he sat up with a long, drawn-out groan and set his feet on the floor. He stretched his arms, his back, his neck, his jaw with a joint-cracking yawn; and scratched his head, tousling his hair.

He glanced around his room. It felt familiar, but it didn't look at all like what he was used to. Dressed stone walls were covered with tapestries, a grand painting, war and hunting trophies. The floor was warm, polished wood, softened with thick rugs. He wiggled his bare toes in the nap. Oh, this was luxury. It was always in the small things. The tall crimson drapes were drawn just enough to let a few golden rays of light cast themselves across his bed.

Bannon stood up, scratching himself pleasantly on his ribs and chest, his back where he could reach it. He ambled over to the weapon rack and armor stand by the door. A Grey Warden uniform hung on the stand. He reached out and touched the embossed white griffon on blue roundel. The uniform was made of charcoal and dust grey leather, gleaming with polished steel studs. His uniform. He was a Grey Warden. He was Somebody.

Once he'd gotten cleaned up and dressed, finished with his morning ablutions, and his hair was neatly combed, there came a knock on the door. A moment later, Alistair poked his head in. "Are you awake? Oh, good." The young Warden pushed the door further open. "You ready for some breakfast, then?"

Bannon looked at Alistair. He was very glad to see his friend, though he still felt a bit off. Alistair's uniform was comprised of chainmail and light, almost decorative, plate. Those long, fluted pauldrons... definitely decorative. They looked rather silly, Bannon thought.

He followed Alistair down the hall. "Where are we?" he asked.

"Uh, we're in the hall," Alistair replied, his brow creased in bafflement.

"I can see that," Bannon said impatiently. "I mean... where are we? What is this place?" He looked around at the impossibly-tall hallway. "How'd we get here? Weren't we... I don't know. Doing something?"

"Oh!" Alistair stopped and faced him with concern. "It's happened again, hasn't it?"

"What has?" Bannon didn't like that look on his friend's face.

"You were injured. In the battle. Um, head injury- don't worry!" Alistair put his hands out as if fearing Bannon would flee or panic or something. "I-I-It's perfectly fine. You're fine. I mean, you'll _be_ fine! As soon as you recover. Which you will!"

"Alistair!" Bannon cut him off. "What are you talking about? What injury? What battle?"

"You don't remember that, either? The battle with the Archdemon?"

Bannon's jaw dropped.

"Oh," said Alistair. "This is a bad one. Let me take you to the First Warden. He can explain better than I."

===#===

The hall led out onto a cavernous room, with a rectangular raised platform. The far end overlooked a darkened library. Wide stairs led down on the left to a grand entry hall. There were some other doorways or something to the right, beyond a desk and chairs that served as the First Warden's office.

Duncan was standing there, looking much as Bannon had first seen him, but his chestplate and skirting were much cleaner, and the Grey Warden emblem proudly displayed. The First Warden was Duncan? Well, that made sense. He'd been the leader of the triumphant Grey Wardens. Or so Bannon gathered. Something still gnawed at his mind, though. Something he'd forgotten.

"Good morning," Duncan greeted them. "How are you feeling today?"

"He's gone and lost his memory again," Alistair said with cheerful helpfulness.

"Oh, dear." Duncan's face creased in concern. He smoothed it after a moment, though. "There's no cause for alarm," he told Bannon firmly. "This has happened before. Your memory will return in time, if you just relax and don't try to force it."

"All right," Bannon said. He supposed it was natural to feel uneasy and confused when you'd lost your memory. "So... where are we?"

Duncan said, "This is Weisshaupt, the ancient stronghold of the Grey Wardens."

"Where... where's Weisshaupt?"

"In the Anderfels," Alistair said.

"How'd we get here?" Bannon couldn't believe he wasn't even in Ferelden any more. Another country? It was worlds away!

"By ship," Alistair supplied. Helpful as always. All right, perhaps it was a dumb question.

"What about my family?"

"Easy, now." Duncan motioned for him to stay calm. "We can answer a few questions, but remember to take it slowly."

"I need to know if my family is all right," Bannon insisted.

"Yes, they're fine," Alistair said.

"My cousin, Soris? They didn't execute him?"

"No no no. King Cailen pardoned him. They wouldn't execute the cousin of the Hero of Ferelden now, would they?"

"The- who? What?"

"He doesn't even remember the best bit?" said a new voice behind them. Bannon turned to see more Grey Wardens. There was Daveth and Ser Jory. Daveth winked at him.

Jory said, "You killed the Archdemon. You're a true hero to all the land. To everyone!" His eyes gleamed in admiration.

"Me?" Bannon couldn't believe it. He didn't feel as if he'd done anything like that. He felt... ordinary. "But I-I..."

"Don't remember, yeah," Alistair said sympathetically. "Maybe you should read the chronicle. That will help."

"Wait a minute, wait..." Bannon rubbed his forehead. "King Cailen? He's alive?"

"Yes," said Duncan.

Bannon shook his head. "What about Loghain?"

"Yes, he's fine, too."

"No, hold it!" Bannon looked at Alistair. Alistair looked back expectantly. The elf looked at Duncan, Daveth, Ser Jory. They glanced at each other. "Alistair, Loghain deserted us at Ostagar- you have to remember that! Cailen died. _Duncan_ died- all the Grey Wardens died!" He waved at Jory and Daveth. "Those two, they died at the Joining. None of them can be here!"

"No we didn't," Daveth insisted.

Alistair gripped Bannon's arm. "Now just calm down. That was all a nightmare put into your head by the Archdemon."

"It was?"

"Yes," Duncan said calmly. "The Wardens and King Cailen fought side by side at Ostagar. We decimated the horde, and the Archdemon appeared. We fought it- you killed it."

Bannon's head was spinning. "We won at Ostagar?"

"Yes," Duncan said.

"And... Lothering? The Blight didn't-? The darkspawn horde didn't go north?"

"Nope," said Alistair.

"But I remember... We went to the mage tower. There were demons and Blood Mages..." The ache behind his eyes grew sharper. He rubbed his forehead again. "We had to... stop this mage named Uldred."

"Yes, we did that," Alistair said. "We defeated Uldred."

"All right, wait. If we won at Ostagar, why did we need to go to the mage tower?"

Duncan and Alistair looked at each other. Alistair said, "Well, we found those treaties, right?"

"Yeah."

"So we had to take them to gather our allies. To Ostagar. Right?"

"Yeah... I guess?"

"Right, so we brought the mages there, and the dwarves and the Dalish."

"I don't remember those."

"Well, those weren't anywhere near as hard, were they?" Alistair said cheerily. "Just pop on by, wave the treaty, and they came right away."

"And Arl Eamon? We went to Redcliffe for troops, too?"

"Right."

"He was sick?"

"No, he's fine."

"And our friends?" Bannon said. His thoughts flitted around wildly, trying to piece together the puzzle around the holes in his memory. "What happened to them?"

"They went home," Alistair said.

"All of them?"

"Yep. After the final battle, and the celebrations and parades..."

"Sten? And Zevran?"

"Yes, all of them. That's why they helped us. They wanted to stop the Blight so it was safe to go home."

Bannon tried to digest it all. It seemed reasonable? He was here now, wasn't he? Something was still missing. He wished he could figure out what.

"Here, come with me," Duncan said. He led Bannon aside to a scribe's desk, filled with a huge tome. "This is the chronicle," Duncan told him. "You've been working on it, when your memory has been intact. I think it will help everything become clear."

Bannon frowned at the book, but Duncan rather insistently had him sit down and start reading.

_The dwarves held the flanking pass,_ he read; _shields locked together, the line bristling with spears. No matter how many times the darkspawn hurled themselves upon it, the line would not break. Massive ballistae rolled up behind them, preparing for the appearance of the Archdemon._

_The elves lined the hills, raining withering fire down on the enemy. When the ground became too broken and littered for the king's horses to sustain a charge, the Dalish halla riders flooded out from the trees like a white-water river. The light-footed deer flew over the ground, leaping any obstacles._

_The darkspawn brought up their catapults, hurled boulders into the fray, crushing platoons of soldiers. The halla charged, scattering just as the boulders hit. They regrouped, leapt the stake barriers the darkspawn had erected, and plowed into the horde. Several brave Dalish hunters broke through. They cut the catapult ropes; they doused the machines with oil, and flaming arrows set them alight._

_The King's troops advanced once more._

_Thunder rumbled in the south, where the darkness gathered. And the embodiment of that darkness rose up on wings of evil. The Archdemon swooped over the battlefield, scattering the faint of heart under its shadow of fear._

_The Grey Wardens stood fast._

_The mages' light encircled the small group of men and women who were the hope of the world. They gripped their weapons and prepared for the final battle._

_The Archdemon landed amidst its troops, squashing some of its lesser brethren in its single-minded rage. It roared a challenge that shook the heavens._

_King Cailen wheeled his charger, regrouping his personal guard. "Make way for the Grey Wardens!" He aimed his sword across the battlefield. "For Ferelden!" He spurred forward and led a wedge into the horde, his white charger and golden armor gleaming despite the dark blood that painted them both._

===#===

Bannon found himself running after the King, his fellow Grey Wardens beside him. They were on foot, but hell, they were Grey Wardens, after all. They kept up with the horses, and Bannon didn't even feel winded. He glided lightly over the rough terrain, nimbly avoiding any obstacles. He chuckled to himself at the lumbering shems all around him. Served them right for cutting off his view.

He moved up to the front line, with Duncan on his left and Alistair on his right. There was a bone-rending crunch, and the horses in front of them faltered in their strides as they ran over a line of darkspawn. They didn't stop, however. Bannon leapt a thrashing hurlock.

Someone yelled something about ballistae. Huge bolts arced in from the left, and struck. Some must have hit the Archdemon, judging by the screaming.

Then the wedge broke to either side, and the Grey Wardens came out on the field before the beast. It roared, stretched out its neck, and spewed black vitriol at them. The Wardens cut and ducked, and yelled challenge back.

"Go for the wings!" Duncan's deep voice boomed.

Daveth and Bannon shot arrows at the flailing beast, ripping its wings.

"Cut it's legs!" Duncan yelled. "Cripple it!"

Ser Jory waded in and swung his great two-hander deep to the bone on the Archdemon's hind leg. Its tail whipped around and knocked the rotund knight back. He tumbled ass over teakettle.

The Archdemon hissed and clawed and bit as the Grey Wardens harried it. Bannon darted in with his swords, figuring it was better there in close than out where it could hit him with that black fire.

He leapt up on the Archdemon's neck. Why not? It was pretty much the size of a horse. Not that Bannon had ever been on one, but how hard could it be? Now all he had to do was get to the skinny end of the neck, and he could kill this thing.

Well, he couldn't scoot up the neck, what with all those spines in the way... but they sure made great handholds! He gripped the spines, stood up, and started climbing. If he focused on the scaly skin right under his feet, and not the landscape whirring back and forth, it wasn't any harder than crossing a narrow rope bridge in a high wind. Not that he had any experience doing that, either. He just kept his knees bent, his eyes down, and his hands on the spines.

The spines at the top were too small to reach, even while crouching down. Fortunately, the Archdemon helped by whipping its head up and down. Bannon's feet left its neck, and he flew towards its skull. He pulled his swords and drove them both between the beast's eyes as he landed.

There was a bone-shaking scream. The world tipped crazily, and then the earth and sky started spinning madly. Bannon must have blacked out for a minute or two, because the next thing he knew, he was riding on Alistair and Jory's shoulders as they paraded around the Archdemon's corpse. Then he was atop the king's white horse, and the army was shouting his name.

"_BAN-NON! BAN-NON! BAN-NON!_"

It rang out to the hills and rolled back as the elves and dwarves took up the chant. It echoed across the Wilds, rose into the heavens until the Maker Himself heard it.

===#===

Bannon blinked and looked down at the book.

"Bring anything back?" Alistair asked him solicitously.

"Yeah."

"Good!"

"Yeah, but... isn't it a little over the top?"

Alistair chuckled. "Aren't heroic tales always? Besides, you wrote it! And you were there, so you ought to know."

"Well, you were there. Did I really climb up the Archdemon's neck and stab it in the head?"

"Oh, yeah!" Alistair's eyes lit up like candles. "And it was thrashing and whipping around, like, _whish, whish!_-" he mimed with his hands- "and you were like, _whah whah!_, and then _Fwish!_" He made more Archdemon and Bannon hand-puppet gestures and sound effects, grinning like a little kid. "And then- _WHOP!_ 'Yaaagh!'- and it threw you right off! That's when you hit your head."

Bannon rubbed his skull. "I remember that part."

"We thought you'd been killed, but oh no! You're a Grey Warden!" Alistair reached out and rubbed his hand over Bannon's head, messing up his hair. "You're too tough!"

Daveth said, "You didn't pass out until after all the cheering and parades and feasts and comely wenches!"

Bannon flinched, because he'd forgotten the other Wardens were there. "That part's still a little hazy," he said.

"Don't worry about it," Alistair said, clapping him on the shoulder. "It'll all come back."

Bannon smoothed his hair down, then turned to Duncan. "I don't understand... we stopped the Blight in Ferelden. Why are we here now, in this place?"

"It's the headquarters of the Grey Wardens," Duncan replied. "It's where the Wardens stay between Blights."

"But I want to see my family again."

"Maybe when you're fully recovered, you can travel."

_I already traveled here, didn't I?_ Bannon growled to himself. He knew it would be useless trying to argue with Duncan. He turned to Ser Jory. "What about you?" he asked. "What about your wife and baby?"

"I fought the Blight to save them," the knight said proudly.

"Yeah, but... Then you didn't go to live with them?"

"I'm a Grey Warden now. The Wardens belong here."

"Well, why?" Bannon looked between them. "What use was all that fighting if we can't enjoy the results?"

Duncan stepped forward. "Bannon, I'll be retiring soon. Then you will be the First Warden, in charge of our entire order."

Well, the elf knew the first change he'd make! "We don't need to be here," he insisted. "The Blight is over!"

"You'll need to make plans to keep the order alive until the next Blight," Duncan told him patiently. "At first, it will be easy. You're a recognized hero the world over. Kings and empresses will give you anything you want. People will flock to you, just to be near you, to try to be like you. But as the years go by, people will start to believe the Grey Wardens are no longer needed."

Bannon's mind wandered when Duncan mentioned the kings and empresses doing his bidding. Damn, it was _so good_ to be a Warden! "Well, yes, all right. I see what you mean."

"You'll need to stay here and go through the archives with me. Adding, of course," Duncan said with a grin, "our own accounts to the histories."

Bannon had already started formulating plans for dealing with various countries, nobles, and politicians, and for collecting a nice nest egg for himself in the process. For his own early retirement. He deserved it, after all, the Hero of Ferelden. The Hero of Thedas! "Sounds good," Bannon said with his own grin.

Duncan smiled. "Excellent. This is where you truly belong, surrounded by your Grey Warden brothers."

A biting voice rang out behind them. "You're not keeping this knife-ears!"

Everyone turned. Bannon felt the familiar flash of white hot rage as Vaughn marched up the steps and crossed the floor as if he owned the fortress. He'd brought his guards with him this time. "He belongs to me." He fixed a predatory gaze on Bannon.

"You don't belong here," Duncan said in a low voice.

"You're dead!" Bannon spat at the nobleman. "Why must you keep haunting me?"

Vaughn raked them all with a glittering crystal gaze. "You have no right to my property."

"Elves are not your property, you son of a bitch!"

"You see? Have I not proven my point?" He sneered at Bannon. "Come on, then. Come at me, knife-ear, so I can teach you another lesson."

Bannon drew his swords. But instead of rushing in, he shouted, "Grey Wardens, attack!" He signaled his comrades forward. Daveth and Ser Jory charged Vaughn's guards, Alistair right behind them. Vaughn leapt at Duncan, and the two began dueling.

Bannon circled Vaughn's guards, hamstringing a couple of them while they were occupied with the other Wardens. Then he faded back to the side and watched.

This was insane. How in the Blackened City was Vaughn here? How was he alive? The answer was obvious- he couldn't be.

And neither could Duncan, Daveth, and Jory.

When Duncan said this was where he belonged, surrounded by Grey Wardens, Bannon had recalled the night of his Joining. When the Grey Wardens had come, and he'd stood in their midst, he could feel it- the Grey Warden bond.

That's what was missing: Bannon couldn't sense any of these supposed Grey Wardens. When they'd gone into the fray, he was sure of it.

He drew his bow and nocked an arrow. With calm precision, he shot Jory in the neck just as the knight felled his opponent. He shot Daveth a moment later.

Alistair finished off the last two guards and turned to Bannon. "What are you doing?" he cried.

"Alistair, they're not real. They're not Grey Wardens. It's some kind of trick!"

"No it isn't!" Alistair came at him, sword and shield raised, betrayal and anger on his face. "You've killed your own brothers!"

From behind him, Bannon heard Duncan yell, "Don't kill him!" That didn't stop Alistair from closing with Bannon. The elf backpedaled.

"Think, Alistair! I couldn't sense them. Could you?"

"Yes!" The former Templar stopped and shook his head. "Of course you couldn't sense them, you killed an Archdemon," he said angrily. "You became, like, a super Grey Warden. Ordinary Wardens are so far below you, the bond is really faint!"

What the hell? Bannon's eyes widened, and doubt coursed through him. He dropped his swords, which he hadn't even realized he'd drawn again. They clattered to the stone floor, and he put his face in his hands. "Maker! What have I done?" he cried.

Alistair came closer, no longer threatening.

"I'm so sorry!" Bannon threw himself blindly at his friend, heedless of the blade. "Alistair, please forgive me! I didn't know!"

The Templar caught him awkwardly. "It-it's fine! It's going to be all right. Look, we'll get the healers; we'll revive them. Everything is going to be fi-!"

Bannon cut him off with a knife thrust up under his breastplate. Blood poured from Alistair's mouth instead of words. Bannon jammed the knife harder, scraping the sundered chain mail.

Alistair coughed another bubble of blood, then collapsed. Bannon shuddered at the shocked and bewildered look on the Warden's face.

"Bannon, help me!" Duncan called. He and Vaughn had closed and were locked in a stalemate. Duncan's long dagger was at Vaughn's throat, held back by Vaughn's free hand. Their swords were locked as the bann sought to overpower the old Warden's defenses. Vaughn snarled in fury, his face barely human, his eyes burning with rage.

Bannon retrieved his swords from the floor and slowly approached the two men.

"Kill him!" Vaughn hissed. "You know it's a trick! Only your rage can set you free."

"No!" Duncan pleaded. "If you kill me, you'll destroy your one chance at happiness!"

"Kill him!"

"You'll go back to a life of hardship and struggle. You'll die!"

"Kill him! I'll show you the way to get free!"

"You'll never be a hero. It's impossible!"

None of this was real. It had to be some kind of nightmare. Bannon felt his anger rising up inside him. He didn't like to be tricked, duped. But what about his fame? Better yet, his fortune!

Bannon looked down at the swords in his hands. Well, he did have _two_ of them. He stepped forward and thrust both blades simultaneously into Duncan's and Vaughn's throats. They shrieked and gurgled and died. Bannon let go of the swords as the two men toppled. "No damned shem is going to run my life," he snarled down at them.

He turned away. Now he had to get out of here. Find his way back to Ferelden. He glanced down at his leathers; they were his old brown ones, not a fancy Grey Warden uniform. He reached up and found the hilts of his sword and long dagger. Ah, and his belt pouches! He'd need money and provisions for the journey.

He darted over to an ornate chest beside Duncan's desk. He tested the lid; it didn't budge. So he got out his trusty picks and... what the hell? He couldn't get them in the keyhole.

He crouched and put an eye to it. There was no hole. The lock was just a piece of metal with a keyhole-shaped hole in it. In disbelief, he tried again, poking into it with the pick. Did someone paint the wood behind the fake lock black? If the lock was fake, how did the chest open?

He stood up and, in frustration, kicked the chest. It tipped over with a clunk. There was no bottom. In fact, the whole thing appeared to be a fake hollow shell of a chest.

"Nothing is real, here."

Bannon whipped around, his blades out in a flash. "Who's there?" The room looked empty. Even the corpses and blood had vanished.

"Away put your weapons; I mean you no harm."

"Yeah, sure you don't. Who or what are you? Show yourself!"

"I can certainly see why that Rage Demon was so attached to you." Bannon scowled and the voice hurried on. "I'm not a demon! I'm a mage! I'm going to come out now. Please don't be startled or make any rash moves. Remain calm."

Bannon looked for this mage to appear, lowering his weapons only slightly. A bit of movement caught his eye, but it was only a mouse scurrying around the desk. He looked around again. "Where are you?" he demanded when the mage didn't appear.

"Down here. Don't step on me!"

Bannon stared down at the mouse. With a lot more grunting and groaning than was usual for a mouse, it climbed up to the seat of the chair. "Boy, this isn't like climbing the Tower." The little rodent crawled to the edge of the seat and then sat up on its hind legs. "Yes, it's me- I'm the mage."

Bannon stared. "You look somewhat like a mouse."

"Uhhh..." The mouse tipped its head and scratched behind one ear. "I am... somewhat like a mouse. But I can explain!" It launched into some tale of being trapped in a maze and some demon switching bodies with him so he could escape through a tiny tunnel, but Bannon wasn't listening.

"Great, I'm talking to a mouse. Now I _know_ I'm dreaming. I'm out of here!" He strode across the room towards the entry hall.

"No, wait!" The mouse squeaked as loud as it could. "This isn't a dream!"

Bannon just waved over his shoulder and picked up his pace. He hit the grand double doors of Weisshaupt Fortress and strode outside.

===_X_===

* * *

><p><em>End Notes<em>

Give yourself 500 Bloodsong Points apiece if you recognized the Yoda and Stuart Little quotes. Plus 1500 if you noticed the mouse sounded like Rimmer talking to himself in the past (from Red Dwarf).


	23. The Templar's Dream

**The Templar's Dream**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Action/Adventure/Drama

Language: some

Violence: yes

Nudity: no

Sex: no

Other: none

_Author's Notes:_

We learn a little about how the Fade works. And there is lots of talking in this one, less action.

* * *

><p><strong>The Templar's Dream<strong>

===#===

Outside Weisshaupt Fortress, Bannon found himself on a flat, dusty road. He looked back, shading his eyes. The fortress was so tall, he couldn't see the top of it, nor the sides for that matter. It was a huge edifice, stretching out of sight in all directions.

He started down the road. The land was hilly on either side, carpeted with long yellow grass. Spiny black trees grew along the edge of the road. They looked like wrought iron fences, the kind with unfriendly spikes and barbs on them.

Soon the road curved left, and Bannon left the fortress behind, out of sight. The road meandered between the small, steep hills, but kept turning predominantly leftward.

After a few short minutes, he expected to come upon the side of the fortress. He was sure he'd traveled almost a full circle. The further he went, the more sure the feeling. He could swear he was near to where he had started. Something must be messing up his sense of direction. He squinted into the sky, but it was so overcast, he couldn't find the sun.

"You'll only go around in circles, you know."

Bannon startled. He pointed his sword at the mouse, who was now sitting atop a large rock at the side of the road. "You again? Well, I'm still dreaming." He sheathed his sword.

"Yes!" the mouse said excitedly. "Well, actually, no. You're in the Fade, but you're not dreaming. You're actually- wait! Come back!"

Bannon continued down the road.

===#===

The road curved around, always left. It couldn't be covering ground any larger than the Denerim Arl's estate, by Bannon's reckoning. He looked for any fork or branch or crossroad, but there were none.

So he came back around to where the mouse was waiting for him.

"Would you _please_ listen!"

"Why would I listen to a mouse?"

The mouse heaved a sigh. "I told you. I'm a mage. You clearly are not, or you wouldn't be so lost."

"And this is the Fade?" Bannon looked at him skeptically.

"Yes! You see that?" The mouse pointed past Bannon.

Wary of a trick, he glanced back. "What?"

"No, up in the sky."

"What, that big black cloud?"

"It's not a cloud," the mouse said.

"It's a cloud shaped like a city." Bannon looked back at the rodent. Of course it was a cloud. What else would be up in the sky?

"Shaped like a what?"

"A city."

"What kind of city?"

"A bl-" Bannon whirled back around. "Holy shit! It's the Blackened City! Maker! Am I dead?" He checked himself over. He didn't seem to be injured. Could a spirit be injured? Even if he were dead?

The mouse muttered something. "No, not yet. You're just really here."

"My body is in the Fade?"

"Ah, well, no," the mouse said, scratching behind his ear again. "Your body is still in the real world, asleep. Your spirit is really here. That is, not just viewing the Fade through the Veil like you do in a dream. You were sent here by a mage, or trapped by a demon."

"Well, I have to get back!" Bannon tore his eyes away from the impossible floating city. "I'm doing something..." He struggled to remember what, exactly. "Something important."

"It can't be as important as what I'm doing," the mouse argued. "You have to help me find the demon who stole my form. Then I have to get back into my body."

"What are you doing that's so important?" Bannon asked, sensing a ruse.

"Look, I'm a mage in the Circle Tower of Ferelden. There's a Blood Mage there; he's trying to take over!" The mouse wrung its paws. "If I don't stop him, he could spawn a new Tevinter Empire!"

Bannon blinked. "That's what I'm doing!"

"You? What?" The mouse cocked its head. "You're not a mage. Certainly not a Templar."

"No, I'm a Grey Warden." Hurriedly, Bannon explained how and why the Wardens were in the Circle Tower. "Help me find my friends, and we can help you, and then we can stop Uldred!" Suddenly, he had a horrid thought. "Oh, wait... If our bodies are asleep- we're helpless! Uldred can just kill us!"

"No, no, no." The mouse waved its paws in negation. "Uldred made a deal with the Sloth Demon. It's Sloth who's trapped us here. If Uldred kills our bodies, our spirits will be free to pass on beyond the Fade, and go to judgement before the Maker. The demon wouldn't stand for that."

"Oh," said Bannon, clutching his chest while his heart recovered from its panicked gallop.

"Time passes differently here in the Fade, but we should get a move on," the mouse said. "My name is Niall, by the way. What's yours?"

"Bannon. Hey! You're the guy with that 'Litany of Andraste' thing."

"Litany of Adralla," Niall corrected. "Yes."

"Where is it?"

"With my body, why?"

"Look, when we get back to our bodies, who knows what will happen?" Bannon explained. "If you get killed, we will be kinda too busy to search your body for it."

"I don't like how you think," the mouse grumbled. "But it does sound prudent. I had the scroll tucked in the back of my belt, so Uldred wouldn't know I had it. Sloth stopped me before I could use it. And hopefully, Uldred hasn't noticed it."

Bannon nodded. "All right. Let's find my friends, and then we can help you find your body. Uh, spirit, form, whatever. And then we can get out of here. You do know how to get out of here, don't you?"

"Yes. First, we need to figure out how I can travel with you."

"Well, here. I have a cozy belt pouch we can put you in." Bannon grabbed the one he figured would be easiest to empty.

"No!" Niall squeaked.

"Why not?"

"What if you get attacked by demons? I'll be stuck; I could get hit. You could fall and squash me!"

"Well, all right." He was a high-strung little fellow, wasn't he? "You can ride on my shoulder, and just jump off if-"

"No!" he squeaked again, scuttling back from Bannon's reaching hand. "Do you know how high that is?"

Bannon sighed. He'd never had anyone complain that he was too tall before. "Have you got a better idea?"

The mouse scratched his ear.

Bannon frowned. "Do you have fleas or something?"

"Of course not!"

"Why do you keep scratching? I'm not carrying you if you have fleas."

"Scratching helps me think," Niall said indignantly. "Don't you ever do that?"

Bannon unconsciously scratched his head while he thought about it. "Not that I recall."

The mouse just gave him a patronizing look.

"What?"

"Never mind. I have an idea, but you need to listen to me and do exactly as I tell you. And stop thinking of me as a mouse! I'm Enchanter Niall, a respected and powerful Circle mage."

"Right, okay."

"Look at me very closely."

Carefully, Bannon bent over the mouse- _mage_- until he could see his fuzzy little lips moving as he spoke.

"The stuff of the Fade is malleable, ever-changing. Demons and dreamers can shape it," Niall said solemnly. "Now, do you see that hut, there?"

Bannon straightened and looked down the road. Not a stone's throw away was a little wooden shack. He startled. That hadn't been there before.

Niall hopped down off the rock and scurried towards the shack. "Go inside and reach under the bed and pull out the toy horse you'll find there."

Bannon followed slowly as not to step on the mouse. He stared in disbelief at the hut. "This looks just like where we lived when I was a kid. Before we moved in with Aunt Bella. Except it was in an alienage, not out in a forest."

"It's charming," the mouse griped.

Bannon opened the rickety door. Yes, there was a triangular chunk missing out of the bottom, like a gap in an old beggar's teeth. "We were poor, what do you want?" He stepped inside. It seemed so much smaller than he remembered.

He knelt on the dirt floor and fished a little wooden horse out from under the bed. He turned it over in his hands. It was a simple, flat horse shape, rounded down and sanded smooth. Four little wheels were attached to its feet, wide rollers to keep it steady. "My dad made me this," Bannon said quietly. The mouse crept up beside him. "We didn't have anything, but he took some scraps and some time at night to work on this."

A lopsided grin played over his lips at the memory, faded after so many years. "He cut the horse out of the baseboard under the bed. I used to sleep under there; that was my room. He said the hole was a magic window. It looked out on this- well, it was a scraggly bunch of weeds and a puddle, but when I looked out, I saw a forest and a lake..." He chuckled. "You know, when my mom found this hole- it was really drafty in winter, of course; we had to plug it with mud and rags. When she found it, he told her that a mouse had chewed it out in just that shape. He looked so serious, it was funny. And she- OW!"

The mouse sank its incisors into his finger, and he shook it off. It landed splay-pawed on the floor. "What the hell?" Bannon looked at the drop of blood welling up from the tiny bite. "What did you do that for?"

"You were getting emotional," Niall complained.

"I was not!"

"Look, that hurt me more than it hurt you," the rodent complained, getting up with a groan. "It's for your own good. Strong emotions attract the demons. You keep going on like you were, and a couple would have shown up, taken on the forms of your parents, and the next thing you know, you'd be blissfully living in a dream world."

"I'm not an idiot," Bannon snarled. He got up and went out of the hut.

"Don't lose your temper, either," Niall said, following. "Here, this is good. Put it down."

Bannon placed the wooden horse on the road. The mouse clambered on. "You expect me to pull you? I'm not a kid; the string isn't long enough."

Niall humphed and took the string in his paws. He looped it over a couple of times, and when he unlooped it, it was much longer. "There. It's all in the perception. Now you can pull me, and when we run into any danger, I can jump off and hide under a nice, sturdy rock. You can drop the string, fight, and then when you're done, we'll carry on."

"And where are we going? This road just leads in circles, in case you forgot."

"Ah, there's a trick to moving around in the Fade," the mouse lectured. "You need to concentrate on the destination, not the journey."

Bannon started walking, playing the string out behind him. This whole thing was crazier than any dream he'd ever had before! "What's that mean, exactly?"

"Think of one of your friends. Which one do you want to rescue first?"

"Alistair. He's a Grey Warden, too."

"All right," Niall said. "Keep walking, but look at the ground in front of your feet. Not where you're going. Concentrate on finding Alistair."

"How am I going to find him if I'm not looking for him?"

"No, no. You're not going to _look_ for him. You're just going to _find_ him. Concentrate on that part, or we'll be here all decade."

Bannon grumbled and stared at the dusty road. Alistair. He thought about Alistair. Alistair's humor. Alistair's tenacity. Alistair's unsurety.

He recalled meeting Alistair, mistaking him for a snobby noble brat. And finding out he was royalty- or not. He and Alistair alone in the Wilds. He and Alistair fighting through the Tower of Ishal, side by side. Of nearly dying together. Alistair sharing his cheese. Alistair arguing morals. Alistair arguing with Morrigan. Constantly.

Bannon chuckled dryly. He kept putting one foot in front of the other. Was the road rising? Don't think about that. Think about Alistair, with his beard- scary! Alistair battling the Paisley Monstrosity. The sun finally came out. It warmed Bannon's left shoulder. He recalled Alistair defending him to the Ostagar quartermaster. He and Alistair running for their lives away from Loghain's soldiers. Alistair picnicking with ham and pie. Alistair clasping his arm after his Joining. He could sense another Grey Warden ahead.

The road petered out in a gentle hill of verdant grass. Ahead, children shrieked and laughed, joined by a deeper voice. Alistair's laughter pealed out.

"We're here," Niall said darkly. "Good luck." Bannon turned back just in time to see the mouse dive into a tiny crevasse between two boulders he was sure he didn't just pass. He dropped the string to the toy horse and went on.

===#===

The day was bright and golden. A gentle breeze caressed the rolling fields, running through the lush grass like fingers stroking a cat's fur. Alistair and a handful of children romped and rolled in the grass, their laughter carefree. Bannon shaded his eyes and saw a whitewashed farmhouse beyond them, and caught a glimpse of a line of washing swaying in the breeze. Apple trees lined the edge of the property. It was a scene of idyllic bliss. Bannon's boots felt heavy as he walked towards his comrade.

Alistair rolled a couple of children off. "All right, you pack of monsters," he told them; "let me up so I can give a dignified greeting..." He pushed himself up and dusted off his leggings. He wore simple peasant garb: a dark green tunic and brown pants. They were worn and stained, but looked comfortably lived-in. Alistair rubbed his head, but failed to dislodge a stray wisp of grass from his hedgehog bristles. "It's you!" Alistair's face lit up with a smile. "Bannon! It's so good to see you! Maker, it's been ages!"

"Hey, Alistair!" Bannon greeted him happily. He swallowed the thought that the last time he'd seen Alistair, he'd stabbed him in the heart. _That wasn't real._

Alistair opened his arms and came at him. For a moment, the elf thought he was going to hug him. But he drew up short and settled for gripping Bannon's hand and clapping him firmly on the shoulder. "You look great! Being a hero treating you well, eh?" He turned without pausing for breath. "Hey, Goldana! It's my friend Bannon- you remember? The one I told you about?" A blonde woman in a linen farmdress walked towards them. Alistair turned back to Bannon. "This is my sister, Goldana."

"You really do have a sister named Goldana?" Bannon recalled the sister who was a Sister. He'd thought Alistair had made that up.

"Yep! And these are her kids. There's Frank and Jeffrey, Rose, Eric- oh, there's a bunch more around here somewhere."

Bannon gaped at him. "Your fondest dream is to marry your sister and have a bunch of kids?"

"What!?" Alistair frowned. "Of course not! These are her kids, not mine! I'm their uncle." His frown vanished. "I get to spoil them rotten."

"It's just like having another child," Goldana said. She looked Bannon over as if sizing up a rival. While Alistair wasn't looking her way, she shot Bannon a murderous glare.

He grinned as goofily as possible. "Goldana! So nice to meet you!"

The disguised demon put on a dimpled smile. "It's good to finally get to meet such a good friend of Alistair's. To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?" She leaned on Alistair's arm, a little possessively, Bannon thought, and some of the children gathered around her skirts. They shot him evil glares as well.

Bannon pretended to ignore them. Blissfully ignorant, that was him! "I was just traveling by. Always on the move, you know. Hero of the Blight and all, everybody wants you to visit their town." That seemed to settle the demons somewhat. "Hey, Alistair, can I have a few minutes?"

He glanced at his sister. "What for?"

"Just some private Grey Warden business." Bannon fawned at Goldana. "Won't take but a moment."

Alistair frowned. "I don't want to fight darkspawn any more! Haven't we had enough of that? That's why I retired out here, away from it all."

Bannon waved placatingly at him. "No, nothing like that, but... Well, you remember that memorial for Duncan?"

The stubborn mule look vanished from Alistair's face. "Right. Goldana, could you excuse us for a bit?"

"Of course, dear brother. Don't stray too far, of I'll have to send the horde out after you," she threatened sweetly with a smile. The look she gave Alistair was charming. Not so much, the look she gave Bannon.

The elf and former Templar started walking a bit. "So what's this Grey Warden business? Is there a problem?"

"No, not... exactly." Bannon wondered how to approach this.

"So that was just an excuse to talk to me alone," Alistair surmised. "There's no need to look at me like that. I'm not _all_ stupid. I remember you used to use that line when you wanted to get away from the others. How are they, by the way?"

"I haven't seen them yet," Bannon admitted. "Look, do you remember when we went to the Circle Tower?"

"Oh, yes. What a mess that was."

"Yeah, Blood Mages, demons, Abominations... Hey, you remember that Templar? The one bewitched by the demon?"

Alistair stopped dead. Bannon turned to look at him. The man's face was creased in sorrow. "Why did you bring that up?"

"I'm sorry," Bannon told him. "But you told the demon that the man's happiness was only a lie."

"I... Well, it doesn't mater now, does it? I got that man killed, and I never even learned his name." Alistair put a hand to his face and shook himself. "It was so long ago. What difference does it make?"

Bannon tiptoed around the delicate subject. "Do you remember fighting Uldred? The leader of the Blood Mages?"

"Yes, and we beat him." Alistair's mood settled somewhat. "Grand strategy that, you and me distract him, while Morrigan blasts him and Zevran stabs him in the back."

"Danced the Rhemigold, didn't we?"

Alistair laughed. "In full drag, too! I'll never forget the look on Uldred's face at that."

Bannon laughed along and hoped he hadn't just engendered that as truth in the Templar's mind. "But before that, there was this demon. A Sloth Demon, you remember that?"

"Yeah... we defeated him, too."

"Not yet."

There was a momentary silence, broken only by the susurus of the wind through the grass.

"What do you mean?"

Bannon took a deep breath. "This. Alistair, all this; this is the Fade. That demon trapped us here. Your sister- she's not real." He plunged ahead before Alistair could argue. "She's a Desire Demon who read this dream of yours from your mind."

"My sister! A Desire Demon?" Alistair threw his hands in the air. "She's not! She's not a... booby... purple..." He struggled for words. "Thing with purple boobies!" Well, he'd gotten the pertinent points down. "And I'm not interested in her like _that!_ She's my sister!"

"Desire doesn't have to be like that," Bannon said. "Look, when I woke up, I was in Weisshaupt, with you and Duncan, and even Daveth and Jory. The Blight was over. I was a hero."

"Well, that's obviously impossible," Alistair said. Quickly, he clarified, "I mean- about Duncan and the others. This is not the Fade. This is real." He paced a few steps back and forth, running a hand through his hair. "The horse, the kids, the orchard... Look, I've even got grass in my hair." He plucked a stalk out. "When does that happen in a dream?"

"It is the Fade; you have to believe me." Bannon didn't know how to make him see. "You're trapped just like that Templar."

"No, that was just an illusion. How do I even know you're not a demon."

Bannon gripped his arm. "You know I'm not. You can feel the bond."

Alistair looked at him, really looked at him. He pulled away. The breeze ruffled the front of his hair as he walked along the crest of the hill. Bannon followed slowly.

"This is everything I ever wanted," Alistair said, not looking back. "Not riches, or power, or fame. A family." He stopped and looked down at the farmhouse. "Goldana is about ten years older than me. She moved away to Denerim when I was still little. Our mother was always good to me- not spoiling me, but very loving. But... something was missing. I wanted a father, like all the other children had."

He continued walking, his eyes on the grass at his feet, Bannon a silent shadow beside him. "Arl Eamon was always so kind to us, I figured he should be my father. One day, I was in the castle... I was hiding from Cook, actually, because I'd filched some apple tarts from the kitchen. Arl Eamon found me outside his study. He must have been bored of tallying harvest reports and figuring out taxes, or so I imagine. He said he wouldn't tell Cook where I was in exchange for a tart."

Alistair looked across the rolling field where cloud shadows chased the wind's fingers over the swaying grass. "He sat me on his desk, and he pulled out some carved wooden soldiers. We played with them all afternoon. I was so happy, you know?" A cloud crossed in front of the sun. "Then I called him 'daddy.' And the look that came over his face..." He turned and paced swiftly so Bannon couldn't see his expression. "I was only four years old! I didn't understand. I didn't know anything about cuckolding your wife, and banging your housemaid, and getting a bastard! He tried to tell me how I mustn't ever say that or call him that, how it wasn't true. All I heard was that he hated me. The man who I looked up to; the man who was the kindest, most honorable man to me and my mum. And he hated me! I couldn't fathom why else he didn't want to be my daddy. I ran off and sulked for three days."

Alistair swiped angrily at his face. Bannon remained silent, letting him get ahold of himself. Alistair took a breath and paced back. "Then Mum and I were called to Eamon's study. I thought that was it, he's going to toss us out on our arses. But they sat me down and explained to me who my father really was." He tipped his head to look Bannon in the eye, a pained grimace on his face. "And stupid little Alistair... I was so happy! I thought, 'My father is the King!' And I thought he was coming to take us away to Denerim, to live in the castle, and my mum would be queen, and I'd be the prince, and I'd finally have everything I ever wanted." He laughed bitterly. "What an idiot."

"You were just a kid," Bannon said gently.

"Yeah, two seconds later they told me that I must never tell a soul Maric was my father, and that I'd never be prince, or attain the throne or the crown, or any of that. My mother was a servant and I was just a nobody." He looked away, squinting as the breeze picked up again.

Bannon moved to reassure his friend, but the demon disguised as Goldana interrupted. "Alistair!" she called. She waded through the grass, the wind whipping her apron. "A storm is coming. We must get the children inside." The sky darkened ominously.

Alistair seemed torn.

"They're not real," Bannon told him.

"But I- I was happy here."

What had the demon Duncan said to Bannon? Kill me, and you'll go back to a life of hardship and suffering. Yeah, it was a bum deal. "You're not a nobody, Alistair. You're a Grey Warden."

Goldana drew near. "Alistair, please! You can't leave us. Simon and Peter took Mirri down by the river. You have to go fetch them before the water rises!" She shot Bannon a dark look, then pleaded to Alistair with her large blue eyes. "Help us! You promised! Nothing could be more important than your family."

"She's right," Bannon said suddenly, earning him a shocked glance from the demon. He moved to face Alistair, tugged his arm so he turned away from the demon. "Listen to me," he said, shaking his hair out of his face. "The real Goldana is out there, in the real world. If we don't stop this Blight, she and countless other innocent people are going to suffer horribly."

The demon shrieked and threw off its illusion, knowing it couldn't top that argument. It leapt at Bannon, fangs and claws bared. He backpedaled, drawing his weapons. He let it close and drive itself onto his blades. It screamed and ripped at his face and chest. He planted a boot in its belly and shoved it back.

"Where's my armor?" Alistair was saying in a panic. "Where's my sword?"

"Alistiar, you're a Grey Warden!" Bannon yelled, hoping that would break the demon's spell. "Use your sword and shield. _Now!_"

The demon jumped him again, but it was intercepted by a charging Templar. Alistair slammed it to the ground with his shield. The two Wardens started hacking at the demon.

The wind died out, and the colours of the farmstead around them faded to a brownish yellow wash. The house vanished, but a pack of smaller wraiths scampered towards them from where it used to be.

"They're all demons?" Alistair said incredulously.

"Aren't all kids?" Bannon quipped. "They must have been awful brats."

The two Wardens waded into the fray. "I was never," Alistair insisted. "I was a perfect angel."

"Sure you were, Ser Tart-Stealer."

"Oh, _one_ time. You're going to hold that against me?"

They made short work of the wraiths and paused a moment to catch their breath. "All right," said Bannon, "we need to get moving and find the others." He looked around and spied the boulders the mouse had dreamed up. It's a good thing they were still there, since the other landmarks of Alistair's dream had faded away. "Come and meet Niall."

"Wait! Where are you going?"

"To find the mouse." Bannon turned back around. Alistair was still standing there, but he was fading away, like a ghost or a dream. "Alistair!"

"Come back," Alistair's voice echoed as he vanished.

"Shit! Niall!" Bannon ran to the boulders. The mouse clambered atop them. "Alistair's vanished. What's that mean?"

"Oh dear," said the rodent mage, scratching his ear again. "I'm not sure. Perhaps he woke up."

"He woke up? In the real world?" Bannon asked. The mouse nodded. "Where he'll be by himself against Uldred? Shit!"

"We can still catch up to him." Niall scampered down off the rock. "There's no time to lose!"

Bannon picked up the string to the toy horse. "Saddle up then, and let's go." He turned back the way they'd come, figuring to get back on the road, rather than trying to cross the acres of rolling fields. In the strange mechanics of the Fade, it probably didn't matter, but in his mind, it did. He put his head down and began trudging, trying not to hurry along heedlessly or worry about Alistair. Fighting alongside his fellow Grey Warden reminded him of how he and Zevran fought together, so he focused on the assassin next.

===_X_===


	24. The Assassin's Dream

**The Assassin's Dream**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Action/Adventure/Drama

Language: some

Violence: yes

Nudity: partial

Sex: no

Other: torture

_Author's Notes:_

I don't think I can top Alistair's dream. But hopefully this works as the key pivot point it is supposed to be.

* * *

><p><strong>The Assassin's Dream<strong>

===#===

The Fade grew darker; the road narrowed, hemmed in by tall hills thick with black trees. Flagstones emerged from the dust of the road, and just like that, Bannon and Niall found themselves in a dank stone corridor. With another hasty wish of good luck, the mouse bailed out to hide in a chink in the wall. Bannon was overcome by the irrational feeling that the toy horse might be trampled and smashed if he left it in the middle of the corridor, so he parked it against the wall.

Bannon checked his weapons, loosening the blades in their scabbards. He had to wonder what kind of alluring fantasy this was- the grim basement, or dungeon?- was a far cry from Alistair's sunny farmstead. Muffled sounds became audible: the groan and creak of strained timbers, distant cries, the crack of a whip. Yeah, definitely a dungeon.

Torchlight spilled from a doorway up ahead. A deep rumbling, like a heavy cart rolling down the street, emanated from there as well.

Bannon rounded the doorway and froze at the strange tableau he encountered within. Zevran was stretched taut on the rack, wearing only a breechclout. His bronze skin glistened with sweat. Two of the ugliest elves Bannon had ever seen stood on either side of the rack. Their teeth were too big for their mouths, and their tiny eyes glinted like river stones. Dalish facial tattoos covered their brows and cheeks.

The one on the closer side of the rack was turning the crank. Wood thunked against wood as it tightened its victim another notch. "Oh, I think I saw him flinch that time," the elf sneered. It wasn't in the Antivan accent, but rather the gutter-drawl usually heard down on the docks. "He won't last two more turns."

"We are going to break you, easy," the other one replied. He raised a flogger and brought it cracking down across Zevran's chest. The assassin remained silent, his teeth clenched, but his muscles tightened ever so slightly. "Hah!" his torturer cried. "That was definitely a flinch!"

"Time for another turn," his companion gloated. He rolled the wheel, and the ropes creaked. Zevran's arms drew tighter, the corded muscle standing out in sharp relief. Sweat poured from his brow, but he uttered not a sound.

Bannon drew his weapons. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he yelled. He stalked forward, blades at the ready.

Zevran lifted his head, his eyes opening. They lit with a glimmer of hope, but then widened in... fear?

The two Dalish turned, smirking without concern. "What's this?" the near one asked. "You have a _friend?_" He twisted the word like a vile insult.

"No," Zevran grated out.

"Looks like he wants to escape," the elf with the flogger taunted. "You want to be rescued?"

"No!" Zevran glared at Bannon. "What are you doing here?"

"I've come to get you out." Bannon came to the side of the rack. The Dalish there merely stepped back to let him move closer to Zevran's side.

"He'll never go with you," the demon sneered.

"Leave me!" Zevran snapped.

"Why?"

"You are no 'friend' to me," he snarled, clearly using the twisted definition of the word. "I _will_ become a Crow."

"Zevran, what the hell? What do you mean you don't want to escape?" Bannon said with a frown. "I thought you wanted to be free of the Crows."

Zevran slitted his eyes. "No, I..." He squeezed them shut again as another wave of pain tremored his stretched body. "This is the initiation to the Crows. If I survive, I become one of them." He took a shuddering breath.

The elf with the flogger rested his free hand on Zevran's chest. He pinched the nipple between his finger and thumb and began twisting it in idle cruelty. "I think he wants to take you away, little fledgling."

"No!" Zevran's eyes popped open. "Leave! I cannot fail this test!"

Bannon's heart sank. This was how the demons would keep him trapped here? Not with visions of riches and fame, or happiness and love? "This is your greatest desire?" he asked, his mouth dry. To be a Crow assassin, not to escape them! After all this time, Bannon had started to fall for all the bullshit of wanting to be free of them. The bastard was just biding his time, waiting for a choice moment to stab them in the back! "You want to be a Crow this badly?"

"I want to _live!_" Zevran whimpered quietly in the back of his throat. "I... must. Must endure. Failure is death." He closed his eyes, lost once more to the pain.

Bannon looked around at the dungeon. This was hardly the pampered treatment Zevran had alluded to. Could it be a fake dream construct? But no. The details were too real: the foetid mold that clung to the damp mortar cracks, the iron tang of blood, the acrid stench of piss. The demons had taken this scene directly from Zevran's mind, from his memories, not imagination.

When Zevran had spoken offhandedly about his enslavement, Bannon had imagined cells where they were locked at night, shackles, a whipping if one were disobedient. Not this, this forge where spirits were hammered down into bare, blackened souls, twisted into whatever shape the masters desired.

The pieces began to fall into place. Zevran didn't want to become a Crow, it was simply the only choice he'd had if he wanted to survive. He was caught in this cycle of obedience or death.

Suddenly all of Zevran's flippant jokes about being a slave didn't seem so funny. Bannon literally hurt, a pang in his chest, to see his fellow elf treated with such callous and calculated cruelty. No more. Bannon would set him free. "I'll get you out of this," he said.

"Failure is death," the demon with the whip intoned. He opened his mouth, revealing his large, sharpened yellow teeth. He bent to lick at Zevran's nipple with a slimy purple tongue; drew his lips back to bite... Bannon stuck his dagger against the demon's throat until he backed off. "Your friend doesn't want you to succeed," the demon elf simpered.

"I must!"

"You'll never win," the other demon sneered. He leaned on the wheel, rolling it another notch.

Bannon could hear the dull crunch of bone pulling out of joint in Zevran's shoulders, the popping in his spine. He pointed his sword at the demon. "Leave it!" The bastard only smirked.

"Let them." Zevran's voice grew tight as he strangled down the screams inside him. "I... cannot... fail!"

"Zevran, listen to me," Bannon said, leaning over him, keeping one blade pointed at each demon. "You already passed this test. You became a Crow years ago, remember?"

Zevran's panicked eyes opened in momentary confusion. Bannon figured now was the perfect time for some self-aggrandizing bullshit. "You're the greatest assassin in Antiva! In fact, you had to go all the way to Ferelden and hunt Grey Wardens to find a challenge for your skills."

"Warden?" Zevran struggled to remember through the haze of pain.

"Yes. These are demons of the Fade," Bannon told him quickly. "They're trying to keep you trapped. Come with me; I can free you!"

Zevran's eyes flew wide, and hope flooded back into them. "Bannon!"

"Failure is death!" the demons hissed in warning.

"Not to a free man!" Bannon shouted as he brought his sword down, severing the ropes that held Zevran's wrists.

"You failed your Test!" the demons shrieked. "Now you will die!"

The elf next to Bannon produced a pair of swords from somewhere and began battering at him in a flurry of blows. Bannon staggered under the onslaught. He hadn't finished freeing Zevran! "Niall! Help!"

He didn't know if the rodent heard him or not, or just ignored him, but no help came from that quarter. He deflected blades left and right and figured this guy _had_ to get tired soon! But he forgot he was fighting a demon.

It began to get past his guard, slicing at his bracers, slashing across his chest. Bannon jumped back, and it came on, snarling like a dog, strings of saliva hanging from its big teeth. Bannon slammed into the wall. Now there was nowhere else to retreat.

===#===

Zevran found his hands free as the Warden cut the ropes. His spine, hips, and shoulders screamed in pain as they snapped back into place. He ignored it. After all, it was only pain.

The Crow at his side lashed out with the flogger as he tried to sit up. Hooked barbs cut into Zevran's skin, ripping him open with dozens of tiny little bites. He ignored this too, and reached for the whip. He let it coil tightly around his arm, digging in its spurs, then he yanked the demon closer.

"You will never escape your fate," the creature hissed.

"I don't need to escape it," Zevran fired back arrogantly. "I make my own." With his free hand, he snatched a knife from the Crow's belt, flipped it, and threw it across the room. It nailed the Warden's opponent in the neck.

That maneuver caused him to twist, to leave his back exposed to the demon elf beside him. It snarled and released the flogger, then drew a sword and swung it full force. Zevran grunted in pain, nearly doubling over, but he forced out a callous laugh. "I can tell you're not a real Crow," he sneered. A true Crow would have stabbed, punched straight up under the ribs and into the heart. The stupid demon's blow was hard and gouged a deep cut in Zevran's back, but most of the force was absorbed by his spine and shoulder blades.

He gripped the handle of the flogger that was still entwined with his arm and lashed out as he straightened. The hard wood caught the demon in the temple with a loud _CRACK_, and the thing was momentarily stunned. Zevran relieved it of another belt knife, then grabbed the belt and hauled the demon towards himself. It stumbled forward, and he buried the knife in its throat.

===#===

Bannon was sure the demon was about to simultaneously decapitate and gut him, when a knife appeared in its neck in a spray of dark red blood. Not one to let an opportunity pass, Bannon thrust with his own blades as the demon reared back with a gurgling shriek. He rode it to the floor, planted a knee across its hips, and stabbed it repeatedly, punching through the leather armor as hard as he could. It thrashed and shrieked and died. Messily.

Bannon staggered up, yanking his blades free, and crossed back to the rack. Zevran was covered in more blood than he was. The assassin had managed to free himself from the ankle cuffs. He turned and hopped lightly off the bed of the rack, but Bannon saw the stiffness in the movement, the hurriedly-masked wince in Zevran's face.

"Are you all right?"

"Of course!" Zevran grinned, his tone and demeanor as nonchalant as always. "Nothing like a good racking to get one limbered up, hm? Oh, this is handy," he said in bemused surprise to find his armor and weapons once more on him. They were still bloody, though.

Well, his penchant for bullshit wasn't damaged. Bannon actually felt relieved. "At least it was only two demons," he said. "I was expecting to have to fight through a bevy of wenches in an Antivan whorehouse." He reached out and gripped Zevran's arm, turning serious. He had to make sure. "And how is it I find you here, dreaming of being a Crow instead of being free of them?"

"Being free is my greatest desire," Zevran insisted. His expression weakened a moment and he hung his head. "It... is also my greatest fear. All my life I have been taught- trained- to fear the Crow Masters. That those who fled, those who escaped, were to be hunted down mercilessly." His amber eyes canted up towards Bannon. "Not killed, but brought back, alive. The killing of them..." He looked away. "That takes longer." He paused a moment, lost in thought. He swallowed, coming to a decision to say one more thing. "I... I have been a slave all my life. I don't know how to be free."

"I'll show you," Bannon said, just as quietly, with a firm squeeze to Zevran's arm. "Just stick by me."

The Antivan looked at him, his eyes soft for a moment, before he recovered his hard, impervious mien. "Well, of course. I did pledge my oath, no?"

"Not that; I mean now." Bannon kept his tone light to match Zevran's. "When I rescued Alistair, he vanished. So don't wake up."

"But we are awake, no?"

Bannon tipped his head and led the assassin towards the hall. "No, this is the Fade. Our bodies are asleep somewhere in the real world. Niall! Where are you?"

The two went out the door and found the mouse sitting on the little toy horse. "I'm right here, waiting."

"What waiting? Didn't you hear me call for help?"

"I don't know what you expect me to do."

Zevran started laughing. "Now I know I am dreaming! You're arguing with a mouse!"

Bannon shot him a look, and noticed with shock that the assassin was fading. "No, Zevran! Stay here, I need you!"

"But I am here?" The pale translucent ghost of Zevran looked around in confusion. "Where have you...?" His voice faded out as he disappeared.

Bannon yelled, "The Litany of Adaia is in the back of the mage's belt!" He could only hope the assassin heard him, wherever he was.

"It's the 'Litany of Adralla,'" Niall said.

"What?"

"Not 'Adaia.'"

"He knows what I meant. If he heard me. Damn, I hope they're all right." The Fade around him began to fade from a hallway back to a road. Slowly, around the edges, as if trying to fool him.

"If we hurry, they'll be fine," the mouse assured him.

"If you'd help, this would go faster," Bannon argued back. He bent to pick up the string, but didn't start off yet.

"What do you want me to do? I'm a mouse!"

"You're a mage! Or so you keep telling me."

"I can't do magic while I'm a mouse," Niall growled. "Have you ever seen a mouse do magic?"

"Mice don't talk either. _Mages_ talk."

Bannon thought he had the mouse-mage, there. Niall dry-washed his paws in agitated thought. "I... well... I don't have a staff. I can't do magic without a staff, now, can I?"

That was ridiculous, but the rodent wasn't going to get away with it. Bannon fished around in his pouches and came up with his dad's skeleton key. "Here, here's your staff."

"But-but- it's metal!" The mouse waved his paws in negation. "Metal is _not_ good when casting lightning. Or especially when having lighting cast on one. No, no; it must be wood. A proper blackthorne staff, that's it."

Bannon stood up and started going through his pouches for some sort of wooden stick. Blasted stubborn rodent mages. He didn't find a stick, but he did find the carving knife Leliana had given him. So he went to the edge of the sandy clearing, which is where they were now standing, and snapped off a twig from one of the black trees. He whittled it into shape as he walked back to the mouse. "Here."

Niall took the twig in his paws and stared at it, his whiskery little nose twitching rapidly. He turned it over and over in his paws. "How did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"It's... It's a three-headed dragon staff. How did you just carve all that tiny detail with a few swipes of your knife?"

Bannon rolled his eyes. "It's a talent. Well?"

"Well what?"

"Cast a spell, come on!" Great Andraste, he thought this guy wanted to hurry.

"I suppose... I can try." Niall raised the staff in one paw and gestured with the other. A tiny glint of green light appeared and circled slowly over the mouse's head. It looked like the light globe Morrigan had conjured, only appropriately-sized for a mouse. "Oh," Niall said jadedly, "that's _real_ helpful."

"At least your magic works," Bannon said. "I told you. Now if that stupid Sloth demon or anyone shows up, just blast the hell out of him. Ha! Can you imagine the look on his face? Blasted by a little mouse?" He started laughing. Big, ugly Sloth-pig; itty-bitty mouse- BAM! He laughed harder, then stopped when he noticed Niall's little beady eyes were wide and the mouse was frantically gesturing for him to stop. "What?"

The rodent gestured more emphatically, incapable of more than a strangled squeak.

"Don't tell me. He's right behind me." Bannon sighed. He turned around and sure enough, there was a big bear-like lump of demonic flesh with Sloth's droopy-jowled face.

"Why... must... you... fight?" The demon drawled slowly, its long jaw opening in a fearsomely large yawn. "Resssst..."

Bannon forced his eyes to stay wide open. He cracked his own jaw in a convincing yawn. "Yessss...," he intoned.

"That's... right...," the demon said with a sleepy smile. "Just..."

Bannon didn't feel like waiting around for the damned demon to finish a long, drawn-out sentence. He just lashed out and poked Sloth in the eye!

"OW!" The demon rolled back on its big, round butt.

"Eeek!" squealed Niall.

"Blast him!" Bannon yelled, snatching up the string.

The mouse waved his paws frantically and pointed the twig staff. A puff of cold white air shot out of the end and made a little ice patch on the ground in front of the demon. "Run!" the mouse squeaked.

Sloth got ponderously to its feet and took one step towards them. Its front paw hit the patch of ice and shot out from under its body. With a bellow, it crashed face-first to the ground.

Bannon ran like hell, trying not to laugh. He had to save his breath. He pounded down the Fade path, dark trees whizzing by. He took a sharp left, imagining walls and streets and tenements... They ended up in a maze of alleys between dilapidated wood buildings. Bannon took a few more sharp turns, then slowed to a halt.

"Don't stop!" Niall said frantically. "Oh, Maker, he's going to kill us!"

Bannon laughed. "Are you kidding? That thing is too fat and lazy to get off his ass and chase us."

"Where are we?" the mouse asked.

"The Alienage." Bannon looked around at the eerily empty buildings and streets.

"We shouldn't stay where there are lots of people. Demons might fill it up."

The mouse had a point. Bannon tried to stop thinking of all the people he knew in Denerim, and his family. No! No one! He walked quickly out of the maze and turned down a larger street. "All right, the Wilds are here through this back gate," he said, hoping it were true. They arrived at the small wooden gate that separated the Alienage from the patch of road that led to the Arl of Denerim's estate.

No-! Bannon shook his head. It was the palisade gate that led out of the pass at Ostagar, and into the Wilds. He squeezed his eyes shut and moved forward, his arm out to push the gate open.

===_X_===


	25. The Mage's Dream

**The Mage's Dream**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Action/Adventure/Drama

Language: some

Violence: yes

Nudity: no

Sex: no

Other: none

_Author's Notes:_

If this part is worse than the others, it's because my Brain went on holiday and I had to write it mostly by myself. Oh, but there's flashy special effects! So maybe no one will notice...!

* * *

><p><strong>The Mage's Dream<strong>

===#===

Bannon wasn't sure if this patch of the Wilds was starting to look familiar to him or if one place just looked the same as any other. _Don't think about that. Just find Morrigan._ What if she wasn't here? She could be dreaming of some palace, or... whatever it was that she might want. An bevy of slave men? Children roasting on a spit? He had to admit that as skilled as he was at manipulating her, he didn't know what she really wanted. He'd have to work on that. He didn't imagine her plans involved destroying the Grey Wardens, but she could be planning to use them to her own ends along the way.

The path was slick mud underfoot; it made for slow going. The little toy horse got bogged down. It's front wheels dug into the mud and refused to turn. The back end tipped upward as Bannon tugged on the string. Niall dropped his staff and held on for dear life with an irate squeak. Bannon cursed and crouched down. He handed the indignant rodent back his miniature staff, then picked the horse up and tried to wipe the mud off of its wheels. The wet earth just ground into the woodgrain, staining it with dirt.

"This would be a lot easier if I could just carry you and the horse," Bannon griped.

"I _told_ you-"

"I thought you were in a hurry!"

"Shh!"

Bannon's ears perked up; he thought he heard voices. Niall dove to the side of the path and scurried to a hiding place behind a rock. His scurry was a little crooked as he kept hold of the staff in one paw as he tried to run on all fours. His little green spark hovered above the stone, marking his position. Bannon sighed in frustration. "I thought you were going to help."

"I am helping, by staying far out of the way!"

"You can cast magic."

"Oh, fat load of good that was."

"It was," Bannon insisted. "It was perfect; Sloth fell right on his nose." A tiny strangled noise came from behind the rock. Bannon couldn't tell if the rodent were laughing or choking in fear. "Come on! Are you a man or a mouse?"

"Oh, gee, let's see... fur, tail, whiskers... Yes, it is clear. I'm a mouse!"

"Fine." Bannon stood up and, still trying to clean up the abused wooden horse, headed towards the voices. He climbed a short rise and then pushed through a curtain of hanging moss.

There was the ramshackle house he recognized as the witches'. There was a bench by the front wall, and a fire with a tripod and a small cauldron. Morrigan was standing nearby, facing away from Bannon, arguing with her mother. "I don't know why you persist in these foolish games."

"I gave you life. I gave you everything," Flemeth insisted in a dry voice. This dream version of Flemeth was quite different than the elf remembered. She was still old, that was clear, but she was bigger, stronger, more straight of shoulder. Her white hair swept back in a thick mane, and blood red ribbons wound around it. It was tied up in a very strange style that made it look almost like horns. Great. So Flemeth was a demon. Big surprise, there. "You owe me the same in return!"

"You are not my mother!" Morrigan snapped. "And I owe you nothing, you weak charlatan."

"How dare you?" Flemeth's yellow eyes flashed, and she slapped Morrigan, the sound rang throughout the clearing.

Morrigan twisted with the blow, her hand coming automatically to cup her cheek. An unidentifiable expression crossed her face. "Well, that's a bit more like it." Then she caught sight of Bannon, and her face reddened, her eyes glowered. She straightened up and stepped towards him. "'Tis about time you showed up! Rid me of this fool demon." She flung her hand out towards Flemeth.

That 'fool demon' turned her cat-eyed gaze on Bannon. "What have we here? Another Templar?" Her expression darkened, and Bannon suddenly felt like a mouse himself.

"Milady Flemeth!" he cried exuberantly. He gave her a sweeping bow. "Your humble servant, the Grey Warden." He straightened and gave Morrigan a cheeky grin. "Morrigan! Behave. How could you be so disrespectful to your venerable and wise mother?"

Morrigan tilted her head, her brow creasing. "Grand. Are you having another head injury relapse?"

Bannon strode directly to Flemeth and pressed the toy horse into her hands. Reflexively, she took it. The elf didn't give her time to question it. "You must excuse Morrigan," he said. "After all, you raised her to be strong and independent, didn't you?"

"Of course," demon-Flemeth agreed.

"You see, Morrigan? You should be showing your gratitude." He moved around to Flemeth's side, facing the younger witch as a united front. "If I had a mother like this paragon of virtue, I would be down on my knees thanking the Maker!"

"Selfish child!" Flemeth scolded.

Morrigan pinched the bridge of her nose. "What are you-?" She flinched back as Bannon's dagger plunged into Flemeth's back. He didn't think that would do much against a tough old demon, so he ripped it out and stabbed again, clutching Flemeth's bicep to hold her steady.

The demon-witch coughed a spray of blood with a cry that was partly pain and partly bewilderment. She looked down at the toy in her hands, unable to work a spell with it in the way. Bannon stabbed her again and again. Morrigan raised her hands and shouted a spell. A cone of fire blasted over the old witch and her attacker.

The false Flemeth screamed and writhed. Bannon screamed and threw himself to the dirt. "Dammit, Morrigan!" He rolled away as the brittle old mage went up in flames. He batted at his arms and wondered if he had any hair left- and if he did, if it were still burning.

"Must you do that?" Morrigan complained. "You couldn't just attack and save us the minstrel show?"

Bannon got to his knees, coughing from the smoke pouring off him. "Mages are very dangerous when provoked." He reached out and snatched the toy horse from the flames where Flemeth had fallen. He smothered out the sparks and tried to wipe the soot, mud, and blood from the toy. "On the other hand, if you catch them unawares... you can kill them easily." The little horse only got dirtier and more distressed-looking. Bannon glanced up at Morrigan. She was giving him one of those predatory looks. "Um..."

He was saved by the mouse. Niall scurried into the yard and sat up on his haunches. "And who is this enchanting beauty?" He stretched up and wiggled his nose at Morrigan. Bannon just palmed his face.

"And who is this... rodent?"

"Morrigan, may I present Enchanter Niall, mage of the Ferelden Circle."

"How do you do?" the mouse said, combing his whiskers with his free paw. He puffed up his chest and held his miniscule staff at a rakish angle.

Bannon levered himself to his feet. "And this is Morrigan. Witch of the Wilds."

"Witch?" The mouse blinked. "An Ap... Ap-ap-ap-ap-ap-ap-ap-ap-?"

"And Apostate, yes," Morrigan said, one hand on a cocked hip. "So educated, these Circle mages."

"You can't trust her," Niall squeaked. "Without training and protection from the Circle... She could be a demon!"

"No, she's definitely not a demon," Bannon said tiredly.

"How could you know?"

"A demon would be much nicer."

"Hey!" the witch snapped. She glared at him, but Bannon just gave her a look until that dark V between her brows vanished. She smiled slowly. "I see you're fully trained."

Bannon rubbed his face. "Morrigan, please try not to wake up. We need your help here in the Fade. We already lost Alistair and Zevran."

"Oh please. I'm a _mage_." She snorted. "How did those two fools escape the demon's spell?"

"I don't know. I snapped them out of their dreams, and then they just... faded away. Niall thinks they woke up."

"I doubt that. 'Twould take more than that to free them from this trap."

"In any case, we have to find the others, and Niall's body."

"And what would we need that for?" Morrigan asked, looking down her nose at the rodent.

"He's the one with that Litany of- what was it?" Bannon looked at the mouse.

"Ah Drah La," Niall said with emphasis.

"Litany of Ah-Drah-La," Bannon repeated. "He's fighting Uldred, too. We need his help."

The witch narrowed her eyes, studying the mouse. "You mean you're stuck in that form? Do you know nothing of shape-shifting?"

"No!" the mouse squeaked in shock. "That's heathen barbarian magic!"

"And they call us heathen barbarians uneducated." She sniffed and shrugged one shoulder. "I suppose you'll have to stay in that form, then."

The mouse's whiskers drooped.

"Right," said Bannon. "Let's find Leliana and Wynne. The sooner the better."

"Senior Enchanter Wynne is with you?" Niall squeaked. "Why didn't you say so? We must find her at once!"

"Must we?" Morrigan asked with dry reluctance.

"The more mages we have, the easier this will be," Bannon told her.

===#===

Morrigan led the way, as she was the most conversant in navigating the Fade. Bannon followed along, keeping his head down. He glanced aside at the mouse on horseback. "So what do you look like? Your body, I mean. If we come across this demon that has your form, how will we recognize it?"

"Ah, well... I have brown eyes, short brown hair, uh... not very tall. I have a somewhat distinctive nose..."

Bannon frowned in thought. "You mean, you still look somewhat like a mouse, even when you're not?" Niall didn't answer. Bannon glanced back; the mouse was sulking indignantly. "There's worse things to look like," the elf offered apologetically.

"Quiet," Morrigan said. "We're here."

Bannon stopped next to her and looked up. There was a white picket fence enclosing a generous yard. At the center stood an odd little building that looked somewhat like a miniature Chantry. It was made of wood and whitewashed. A small, boxy belfry stood atop one end of the roof. Children of various ages played in the yard.

"Great," Bannon muttered; "More demon children." He spied Niall's boulders near the gate, so he went over there and parked the toy horse.

"What are you doing?" Morrigan asked them.

Niall said, "It's called hiding. I'm not fighting any demons!"

"What are you, a mage or a mouse?" the witch asked scathingly.

"Oh can't you come up with any more original mouse insults?" the rodent griped. "What do I look like?"

"Hmm." Morrigan folded her arms and rested a forefinger against her chin. "You have a steed, a staff, and a wisp. You look like a mouse trying to be a mage."

Bannon thought he could hear the tiny rodent teeth grinding. He wondered if he should rescue the mouse by suggesting a cozy spot he could tuck into to ride on Morrigan. One that was well-cushioned should they fall. But wisely, he decided to stay out of it. "Come on, Niall. Why would a demon attack you, anyway?"

The little mouse fumed a moment. "All right, fine! I'm sure there are plenty of convenient hiding places all over the place."

"Good!"

The bell tolled, and the children ran for the open double doors at the end of the building. Bannon, Morrigan, and Niall followed at a more sedate pace.

A sandy-haired boy turned to look at them. His eyes narrowed hatefully. He sprinted inside. "Auntie Wynne! Auntie Wynne! The Templars are coming!"

The Warden's group came through the door. Inside, children of all ages milled about in fear- both human and elven children. Some of the teens grabbed simple wooden staves.

"Stop this at once!" Wynne's iron grey voice cut through the undercurrent of fear. The children parted as she strode forward, dragon-carved staff in hand. Azure power wreathed the tip, ready to be unleashed.

She took a battle stance before them, her wards flanking her. "This is an ordained school for mages, sanctioned by the Grand Cleric herself. No Templar may interfere with the mage-gifted under my care!" She leveled the staff menacingly.

"Whoa!" Bannon said, dropping the toy horse's string and putting his hands up. "Wynne, it's us!"

She didn't seem to recognize them. "We will not allow Chantry fools to destroy what we have made here!"

"Well," Morrigan drawled, unamused; "For once, I agree. The Circle Mage shows her true colours."

"Wynne," Bannon cut in quickly; "you're talking to a witch, an elf, and a mouse. I don't think Templars recruit any of those." He pointed at Morrigan's cleavage. "Morrigan is definitely not wearing a regulation Templar breastplate." What? Shit, did he just say that out loud? Forget the senior mage and her demon cohorts! He gave Morrigan a weak, apologetic grin.

She quirked a brow. "Your subconscious can be rather feisty."

"Sorry," he said meekly. He noticed his finger was still pointing, so he put it away.

"Senior Enchanter Wynne," the mouse said. "It's me- Enchanter Niall."

"Niall?" Her brow creased. "But what's happened to you?"

"I had a little run-in with a demon," he said abashedly. "You have to believe us, Wynne. This is the Fade. These people..." His beady little eyes took in the array of magic staves pointed at them, and he finished with a simple, "Ulp!"

"These people-" Morrigan began, her disdain clear.

Bannon cut her off. "Are fine mages! Are you going to introduce us?" He smiled cheekily at the demons. "Hey, what's with the threatening sticks, huh? We're all friends here. You're Wynne's friends; we're Wynne's friends. How do you do?"

Oh yeah, the demons were about to blast them.

===#===

Bannon ducked and threw up his hands as a white light flooded the schoolroom. He braced for the spell's impact, but there was no pain, only a thrumming noise that slowly rose in pitch. He lowered his arms and blinked, but he could see nothing and hear nothing except the magic. Then a deep, melodic voice spoke clearly: "This is a beautiful dream. But now it is time to wake."

Bannon squinted, then blinked tears from his eyes. He thought he saw a Templar, but he blended into the light, his armor was so white and glowing. The figure stepped to Wynne, and... it looked as if he kissed her brow. But wasn't he wearing a helmet? Bannon couldn't see through the searing light.

The thrum jumped in pitch and the light exploded with a shockwave like a thunderclap. Everyone staggered. The Templar, or whatever he had been, was gone. The apprentice mages were rendered back into their demonic wraith forms, and they all lay about as if struck senseless.

"Get them!" Bannon yelled, his ears still ringing. He drew his blades and stood over Niall. Morrigan laid about with the frosty spray of ice from her staff. The wraiths struggled to rise, but were caught frozen in mid-motion. Wynne conjured a large stone fist and smashed them where they stood.

"Look out behind us!" Niall squeaked a mousey shriek and leveled his tiny staff. A puff of cold air shot out as he cast the ice spell right where the demon was about to step. Bannon turned just as the creature fell on its face at his feet. He stabbed down with both blades.

"Good job," Bannon said.

"Well, of course. I _am_ a highly-trained Circle mage." Niall tried to twirl his staff, but his little mousey toes couldn't handle the maneuver, and the stick went flying.

Bannon bit down on his lip and went to fetch it. Around him, frozen chunks of wraith lay scattered, slowly thawing. Morrigan and Wynne were standing, staring at each other in the center of the carnage. "What the hell was that?" Bannon asked them.

"A spirit," Wynne said.

"What's a spirit?"

"'Tis a denizen of the Fade," Morrigan replied. "Like a demon, but spirits do not hunger for the embodiment of flesh. Generally." Her eyes narrowed.

Bannon looked over at Wynne. The older mage shook herself and brushed down her sleeves. "Spirits may sometimes aid dreamers in the Fade. But now is not the time for talk and speculation. We must stop Uldred."

"We have to find Leliana, and Niall's body." Bannon handed the mage his stick.

Wynne looked down at the mouse. "Your body? Isn't it in the real world?"

"He means my form. I... sorta traded forms with a demon." Niall scratched behind his ear. "I was trapped in this maze, and-"

"Right, we don't have time for that," Bannon cut him off. "Morrigan, can you lead us to Leliana, now?" He looked around at the remains of the schoolhouse. It was melting into the vague landscape of the Fade, just as the chunks of ice within it were melting away.

"You know her better than I do," the witch said. "You should lead the way. We shall follow."

"All right." He picked up the string and Niall mounted his steed. Bannon set out in a likely direction, trying to remember how to find someone in the Fade.

===#===

Bannon and Niall went on ahead. The young elf should be able to find his friend. Wynne followed quietly. She'd deflected their questionings. Perhaps when they awoke, all this would fade away, like a dream.

She contemplated her dream, her mind drawn back to the schoolhouse. It could have worked, so beautifully. Wynne remembered the little one-room schoolhouse she'd attended as a child. It had always been a place of wonder and joy for her. She enjoyed learning; unlocking the coded symbols that allowed words to ring inside her mind even though no one spoke them aloud. Words upon words, and they flowed into a picture. Pictures of far off places, of heroes conquering enemies, facing danger and triumphing.

The school had always been her sanctuary, away from the farm and its constant drudgery. There had been other children her age, girls she could play with in the sunny yard.

Her musings were interrupted by the apostate. "'Tis a dangerous game you play, old woman."

Wynne frowned. "'Tizz' none of your concern, _child._" She shot Morrigan a matronly warning look. "I do not wish to speak of it."

Morrigan's lip twitched in recognition of the look, as if all too familiar with it. And perhaps immune to it. "And who am I going to tell? Your Circle masters? I owe them no allegiance."

"No, I can't imagine you'd like to have an involved conversation with any Templars."

Morrigan's smug look turned sour at the veiled threat. Good, that settled that, then. Now if only Wynne could settle her own mind.

===_X_===


	26. The Bard's Dream

**The Bard's Dream**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Action/Adventure/Drama

Language: some

Violence: yes

Nudity: no

Sex: no

Other: none

_Author's Notes:_

Another chapter I wrote mostly by myself while my Brain was on holiday. Short, but the next chapter(s) are going to be really good!

* * *

><p><strong>The Bard's Dream<strong>

===#===

The Fade darkened, and Bannon wondered if this was going to be another nightmare, like Zevran's. What did he _really_ know about Leliana and her past? She claimed to be on a mission of mercy assigned by the Maker Himself, yet Zevran had said that Orlesian bards were thinly-disguised assassins in their own right. Who knows what the mysterious redhead had been up to in her past?

They felt the music before they could actually hear anything. It rumbled through the ground, the bass notes so low they were nearly inaudible. Then ahead, just as it was growing too dark to see a hand in front of one's face, there came a glow. A golden light splintered into rainbow colours, cast from towering windows made of jewel-like chips in black latticework. The windows defined a Chantry, but like no Chantry Bannon had ever seen. It was huge, stone, turreted like a palace. Song broke over the little group as they ascended the steps, an angelic choir delivering praises up to the Golden City of heaven.

Inside, the vast hall was lit with candles, hundreds of them. They lined the walls in towering wrought-iron candelabras; they hung in tiers from chandeliers overhead. Every inch of the grand Chantry was bathed in light. There were no shadows, only overlapping areas of deeper gold.

The pews were lined with Chantry Sisters, each bearing a three-tined candelabra. Their eyes looked heavenward; their throats swelled with song. The pure notes enveloped Bannon and his companions. The elf walked slowly down the aisle, afraid to break the enchanted moment. He felt distinctly grubby and hoped fervently that his footsteps weren't about to blacken this holy place. He spied Leliana at the front of the chapel, kneeling at the altar.

Behind him, Morrigan sighed. "Enough nonsense. Let us slay these demons and be gone."

Bannon whirled and shushed her. "No! Bad idea!" he whispered loudly. "We can fight fifty demons with Leliana or fifty demons _and_ Leliana."

"I hardly see how that makes much of a difference." The witch sniffed haughtily. "We have three-" She stopped and shot a glare down towards the mouse- "make that two and one-eighth mages."

Wynne came up on Morrigan's other side. "We can't attack while she is enmeshed in the dream. It might do irreparable harm to her mind."

"I hardly see how that would make much of a difference, either."

"Morrigan, it's called 'strategy,'" Bannon growled.

"Very well. But don't expect me to play in this farce."

"Fine, wait back here. Niall...?" He looked around for the rodent; the talking mouse was a good way to prove this was a dream. The mage had abandoned his toy horse, however, and was scampering to the front of the cathedral. Bannon followed quietly, hoping the rodent wasn't love-struck by one of his female companions yet again.

Niall was looking up at Leliana with worship in his beady little eyes. "Dear child..."

Leliana looked up. "Maker?"

"Uh, no. I'm down here, child," the mouse said.

"You've come down amongst your people once more? It is a blessed day indeed!" She leapt up, causing the mouse to scurry back for cover. "I must tell the Revered Mother!" She strode off before Bannon could talk to her.

"Did you tell her this is a dream?" he asked Niall.

"Uh... no, I didn't get a chance. She seems to have mistaken me for the Maker." The mouse looked sheepish.

Bannon palmed his face. For a moment he wondered if he could just have 'the Maker' explain the demons to Leliana, but that would just create more complications. He followed after the wayward nun as she went to speak to the Revered Mother. Wynne and Morrigan followed silently.

"And He told me that He has come once more among the people. Surely this is a blessed day, Your Reverence."

"Nonsense," the severe, dark-haired Mother said.

Leliana seemed taken aback by this short dismissal. "But... but you believe me."

The Revered Mother rolled her eyes. "Nobody believes you, child."

"But I..." Leliana's voice cracked slightly. She turned back and looked at Bannon, and the others as they caught up to him, in confusion. "They don't?" She sounded like a lost child.

"Yes we do!" Bannon insisted. "The Maker sent you to help the Grey Wardens."

Her sea-storm eyes looked at him blankly. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"It's me, Bannon. The Grey Warden? The Hero of the Blight?"

"Hero? You hardly seem the hero type to me." She drew in on herself, crossing her arms over her midriff defensively.

"What? Because I'm _short_, dark and handsome?" the elf snorted. He tossed up his hands in annoyance.

Morrigan gave one of her impatient sighs and just cut to the heart of screwing up the matter. "He doesn't believe you," she told Leliana flatly; "He just wants to use you." Bannon slapped his face, harder this time.

"Morrigan?" Leliana recognized Morrigan? And not him? The Chantry Sister faced the witch. "You think that everyone is like you. You care for no one but yourself!"

"And if I do not? Who shall care for me, if not myself?"

"Not everyone is so selfish. Good people can see beyond their own grasp; they can understand that we are all in this world together. They know that extending aid to others also strengthens them."

"And they become easy prey for those who would use them."

Leliana blew out a strong breath in frustration. "I do not know what happened to you, Morrigan, to make you believe ill of all people. But it is not the truth of the world. Yes, I can admit, there are those who would deceive you and use you, but that is not everyone. There are many with kindness in their hearts. There are people who believe in the Maker and His works."

"And then there's this charlatan, who'd let you continue to believe you are conversant with a deity, when in fact, you are talking to a mouse," Morrigan said. Leliana looked baffled.

Bannon scowled. "That's not true!" He'd already discarded that as a bad idea.

The witch shot a cat-eyed glare at the mouse. "Niall, tell her."

The mouse-mage tiptoed forward, his little twig staff clicking against the floor. "Uhm..." He stood on his hind legs and waved his free paw sheepishly. "I'm afraid you've mistaken me for the Maker, miss. B-but I'm quite flattered!"

"I don't understand?" Leliana looked between the mouse and Morrigan.

"He's a mage too stupid to regain his true form."

Niall slumped in shame.

Wynne said, "That's enough, Morrigan."

"I'm only telling the truth. Does not he Chantry preach that truth is divine?"

"The Chantry does a great many good works," Wynne said, taking umbrage at Morrigan's sarcastic tone.

"Oh, is this the same mage who was prepared to annihilate 'Chantry fools' just a little while ago?"

"I did not mean everyone associated with the Chantry," Wynne insisted. "You misrepresent my words."

Morrigan started in on the Templars. Bannon glanced at the Revered Mother, who had a smug smirk on her face. "Hold it!" the elf interrupted the heated debates. "None of that is the point, here." He turned to Leliana. "This is not your Chantry- it's the Fade. That is not a Revered Mother; it's a demon." Bannon jabbed a finger at the creature. "Please, Leliana, try to remember. The Maker showed you a vision of the Blight. You left the Chantry to join the Grey Wardens- me and Alistair- to fight it. That demon in the mage tower, it trapped us here."

She turned away from him, her face creased in confusion and doubt. "How can I tell what is real?"

The Revered Mother touched her arm. "Listen to your heart, child. It knows the truth. Do not be fooled by these demons. Keep your faith strong."

"Leliana, we're not demons! That's the demon!" Bannon argued.

"Just what a demon would say," the Mother said haughtily. "Look how they're trying to trick you- with the false voice of the Maker."

"That was just a misunderstanding."

Leliana whirled on the elf. "You don't believe in me! You don't even believe in the Maker!"

"Yes, I do!"

"You do not believe that any person could be so close to the Maker!"

"Believe me," Bannon growled; "I've never been so close to the Maker as I am now. If you could just break free of this dream, we could walk outside and see the Blackened City in the sky! I pray I never get this close again, at least until after I'm dead."

"How can I believe in you?" Leliana shook her head. She turned towards the Revered Mother for comfort.

"I believe in you, child," the demon purred.

Bannon didn't know what else they could do, aside from sticking the priestess with a sword. Wynne stepped past him. "My dear- Leliana- please listen to us. Surely you remember fighting in the Circle Tower? We are still in that fight."

"Leave her here, if she can't see the truth," Morrigan said coldly.

Leliana shot her a glare. "Truth is not what you see, Morrigan!"

"You remember Morrigan," Bannon said. "Why don't you remember the rest of us?"

"That was... so long ago." The redhead's brow wrinkled.

"Banish these demons from your mind, my child." The Revered Mother came up behind Leliana and grasped her shoulders. She smoothed her hands over the young woman's arms. "They will not trouble you again." Leliana's eyes grew stormy.

"Listen to me," Bannon jumped in. "If we _were_ demons, we would have read your mind, and we'd have been what you wanted to see. I'd be some tall, gleaming, broad-shouldered, blond hero- hell, I'd be Alistair! But I'm just me. I'm real."

"And the Revered Mother, the peaceful Chantry... Everything I wanted-!" Leliana's eyes widened. "That's how the demons would tempt me!"

"Yes!"

Leliana turned, shaking off the demon's grasp. "Begone, spirit of deception! And trouble the faithful no more!"

The demon shrieked, but it was a hollow echo. It's form unraveled; it blew away like a cloth on a strong wind. All around the group, the Chantry demons were speared by the light they carried. They vanished like flames blown out.

Bannon blinked. He had no idea one could banish demons with just... faith. Judging by the looks Wynne and Morrigan were giving Leliana, it was news to them, too.

"We still have not defeated this Sloth Demon," Morrigan pointed out, before anyone got too jubilant at their easy victory.

Leliana nodded. "We must needs do this, and return to the Circle."

"Quickly, Sister; take this string." Niall scampered up to her and held out the toy horse's tether. Leliana took it, with a baffled look. In the next moment, she started to vanish. "Hold on!" Niall warned them, hopping onto the wooden horse.

Wynne grabbed Bannon's arm and crouched down, reaching for the toy. Morrigan did the same, across from them. And then they all began to fade out of existence.

===_X_===

* * *

><p><em>End Notes:<em>

1000 more Bloodsong Points to you if you recognied the swiped Reepicheep quote!


	27. Sloth's Nightmare

**Sloth's Nightmare**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Action/Adventure/Drama

Language: some

Violence: yes

Nudity: no

Sex: no

Other: none

_Author's Notes:_

Epic, yet short. Wait, isn't that the opposite of what "epic" is? :X

* * *

><p><strong>Sloth's Nightmare<strong>

===#===

Bannon felt as if he were being unraveled, turned into a thin bit of string himself. He tried to scream, but his lungs were too thin to hold air...

Suddenly, he snapped back to reality- or, rather, the illusory reality of the Fade. He got the impression of a wide circular area. He stumbled about drunkenly as his body tried to figure out if it were horizontal or vertical, or in fact if one might be better than the other. Wynne swayed against him, and they held each other up for a moment.

"Oh, here I am," Bannon heard Alistair say.

"Alistair," Leliana called and went to him. "Zevran."

"You appear to have a string attached to you, my dear," the Antivan's tone replied.

Leliana turned as the toy horse rolled to a stop near her foot. "This is... I'm sorry, we haven't been properly introduced."

"Enchanter Niall," the mouse said, puffing up his chest.

Alistair gaped. "But you- you're...!"

Niall deflated. "I know, I know; I'm a mouse. Can we get past that?"

"You are the one," Zevran said, "that Bannon was argu- ah, there you are, _mi patrone_."

Bannon and the mages joined the group. "Where-?" He looked around for Sloth and spied a huge, misshapen lump sitting in the center of the area. One eye was more swollen, bloodshot, and drooping than the other.

"You... are... so...," the demon began.

Bannon didn't feel like waiting half an hour to find out what the damned thing was trying to say. "All right, spread out."

"Wait!" said Niall. "I'll handle this." He scurried to the edge of the group to face Sloth.

"...trouble," the lumpy thing was saying.

"Sloth! Where is my true form?" Niall squeaked in demand.

"Why..." And here, the demon just had to pause for a jaw-cracking yawn. "Right... where it... belongs."

"Fine." Niall raised his tiny staff and began an incantation.

Sloth's good eye widened- in fact, it was now almost half open. "What... do y- ooogh." The eye re-closed, and Sloth slumped forward on his chin, snoring.

"Sleep spell," Niall said in triumph. "Sloth demons are especially susceptible." His whiskers twitched in a mousey grin. "My wisp may be tiny, my elemental range small, but my _mind_ is as strong as ever!"

"Brilliant!" Bannon said with a grin. "Now let's kill this thing and go home!"

"Ah, but wait," Niall said, not quite finished. "When your enemy is asleep, a simple little fear spell becomes..." He chanted an incantation.

"No, don't!" Morrigan cried. "Not in the-!" A bit appeared in her mouth, cutting her off.

Bannon started to laugh, but that was cut short, too, as he found a hard metal bar between his teeth, yanking his head back. A whip cracked over his back, stinging so hard that he yelped and jumped forward to escape it. He didn't get anywhere; his chest slapped against the straps of a harness, which was connected to something heavy behind him.

Another whip cracked. Bannon saw the others, all harnessed to huge, heavy carts. Zevran was beside him; they were harnessed in tandem. Of course Sloth's nightmare would be about manual labor! And in the Fade, the land of dreams, it manifested as reality."

"Oh dear," he heard the rodent say.

Bannon heard a cry and saw Wynne ahead of them. She collapsed to her knees as her shadowy cart driver whipped her mercilessly. The elves' driver was no less eager. Bannon jerked his head towards Wynne. He and Zevran leaned forward, legs bent and straining. They managed to get the cart moving, slowly. They kept at it, scrambling against the hard-packed ground, and they ponderously picked up speed. They swung to face Wynne's cart head on. If some damned fool wraith was going to enslave these two elves, they were going to be sorry!

They sped up, and Bannon grinned around the bit. Oh, Zevran wanted to play chicken and see which one of them turned away first? Bring it on!

The two elves leapt aside at the last second, jack-knifing the shaft. The cart skidded and slammed broadside into the other one. The ghostly driver that had been tormenting Wynne flew off.

Bannon laughed and caught a lash between the shoulder blades for his insolence. He cried out. The cart wasn't going anywhere; its wheel was locked with the other's. A second whip crack made his vision flash, and he fell to his knees. Zevran turned and leaned over him, partly shielding him as the driver continued to strike at them in anger.

===#===

"Oh dear," Niall said as Sloth's nightmare manifested around him. What a stupid mistake! The apostate was right; he was useless as a mage. The cries of these brave people rose as the whips cracked. _This is all my fault._

He would have wrung his paws if he weren't holding the staff. He looked at the three dragon heads carved into it and firmed his resolve. He'd be worthy of this fine staff! He'd kill Sloth!

But how? He could only conjure a patch of ice as big as the demon's paw. Or a little fireball that might singe a similarly-sized patch of fur? The dragons' eyes glimmered as Niall racked his little rodent brain for a method to kill a demon twenty times his size or more.

No, _not_ a rodent brain! A mage's mind!

He scurried up to Sloth. All he had to do was get close enough... He looked up at the mountain of fur and diseased skin above him. Well, there was no help for it. Niall opened his mouth and clenched the staff firmly in his molars. Then he leapt as high as he could onto Sloth's heaving flank, and grabbed two little pawfulls of fur. Clinging with fingers and toes, he started to climb.

He panted and grunted. The staff prevented him from turning his head very far, so it was difficult to navigate, but as long as he continued up... up... up... He came to a loose flap of skin that sagged away from a festering lesion, and he sidled along it until he came to a bony spike outcropping. The spines were like small, denuded trees. Niall made good time using their solid bulk to heave himself up.

At last, he crested Sloth's shoulder and started down the slope of the neck. This was much easier, and he began to get his breath back. Then his paw slipped, and he went sliding facedown through a puddle of pus. It slicked down his belly fur. _Ugh! They never mention these things in the wondertales. And whoof! The smell!_ Did Sloth never bathe? He was probably too lazy. Niall got down to the juncture of the neck and head, and the miasma wafting out of Sloth's ear was truly nauseating.

The mouse scooted away to the middle of the broad skull and sat back on his haunches. He took his staff back into his paws and rubbed his sore jaw. He caught his breath a minute- careful not to take any _deep_ breaths.

Then, firming his resolve, he planted the staff and stood to his full height of four and a half inches. He glanced at the hissing dragon heads on his staff. They seemed ready- and eager- to go. Niall began conjuring.

The dragons' eyes began to glow, luminous blue. Still, Niall drew more power into the spell. He would only have one chance at this. Brighter, and whiter, the dragons' eyes gleamed. Tendrils of electricity danced among them. Niall's fur stood on end. He shouted the incantation one final time, then reversed the staff and unleashed the lightning into Sloth's head.

The demon's skull glowed like a lantern for a brief moment; its eyes flashed with light. Then, with a groan, Sloth's body settled, dead. It dissolved into a pile of greasy ash.

Niall fell, but fortunately it was a soft landing. That was about the only fortunate thing about it, for the mouse found himself buried in a stinking pile of demon soot.

===#===

One moment the whips were cracking, and Bannon was struggling with the binding harness, and the next, he and his companions were staggering upright. The nightmare had vanished like the flame of a snuffed-out candle. Bannon had his weapons and armor back, but his shoulders still stung with residual pain. He ignored that and ran over to the pile of ash. "Niall!" He dropped to his knees and thrust his hands into the ashes. "Where are you?" He saw movement and grabbed for it, gently though.

He caught the rodent in his cupped hands and pulled him from the ash. He held Niall in his left palm, up close where he could see the mouse. Bannon tried to brush soot from his fur. Niall coughed and hacked. Bannon thumped him on the back with two fingers. "Niall! Are you all right?"

"Would be... _cough, cough!_ If you... _hack!_ ...stop... _cough!_ helping!"

Bannon quit and just held Niall. The rodent coughed some more and then distinctly said, "Bleech!" He brushed his forepaws vigorously through his fur, dislodging flakes of dead demon.

"You did it!" Bannon said with a big grin. "Itty bitty mouse versus big, bad Sloth- BAM!"

Niall straightened up at this. For a moment, he seemed overawed at what he'd accomplished. But then he just sneezed a cloud of soot right into Bannon's face.

"Ugh!" the elf complained, wiping his nose and mouth with the back of his hand.

"Sorry."

Bannon stood up and turned to his companions. "Did you see that?" he said, his enthusiasm barely dampened. "Did you guys _see_ that? BAM!" They gaped bemusedly at him. "Oh, come on! That was classic! You know what? No- that was _legendary!_" He turned to Leliana. "But when you tell that story, make sure you leave that part out." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating where the carts had been.

"She's going to tell the story?" Niall asked.

"She's a bard."

"Oh." Niall scratched his ear, raising another puff of soot. "Uh, and leave my name out of it."

"What, don't you want to be famous?" Bannon asked him.

"Niall the mouse mage? I'll never live it down!"

"Niall, come have a look at this," Wynne said. Bannon turned back towards her. "Sloth was sitting on something." The demon's ashes had begun dissolving, blowing away on a non-existent wind. Beneath, faintly glowing lines were revealed.

"It's a rune circle," Niall squeaked excitedly. "Quick, put me down." Bannon obligingly crouched and lowered his hand. "No, wait; I can't see from down here; pick me up." The elf bit back a sigh. After all, the guy had just saved their asses. He shot a glare at Zevran who was snickering, and also noticed Leliana with a hand to her mouth, her cheeks dimpling.

Niall ordered Bannon around so he could look at the runes from various angles. He also had Wynne and Alistair brushing remnants of soot away. That mouse liked being in charge. Bannon glanced over at Morrigan, expecting her to be amused as well, but she had her mouth drawn into a thin line and was uncharacterstically silent. She must not have the same knowledge in this area that the Circle mages did. Bannon figured that rankled her.

"It is what I think it is, isn't it?" Wynne said hopefully.

"Yes...," Niall mused. "Yes! It's a portal! It must be the way back to the real world. And there, look! Wynne, take two steps to your left. A bit mo- yes! That's the key rune."

"Everyone stand on the glowing edge of the circle," Wynne instructed. "I can activate the portal, and we'll all awaken." The companions moved into position.

"Wait," said Niall; "I haven't regained my form."

"You will just have to regain it when you re-enter your body," Morrigan told him.

"But..."

Leliana said, "I once had a dream that I was a chicken. Did I wake up with feathers? Of course not."

"You're going to have to tell me about that one," Alistair said.

"There's not much to tell, really. Although ever since, I have had the uncanny ability to cluck realistically."

"Well," said Morrigan, "that should keep Alistair entertained for hours."

"Shut up, witch!"

Bannon tried ignoring them. "Look," he said to the mouse in his hand, "maybe that's what Sloth meant about your form being where it belonged: back in the real world. You wake up; you're you again."

"Well... all right. Set me down, then." Bannon crouched to let him down, giving him an encouraging smile. "But has anyone seen my staff? I feel so much more like a mage with my staff." Niall sighed.

His companions stifled their groans (some more successfully than others), but Bannon took a minute to look around for the fallen twig. He retrieved it and gave it to the grateful rodent.

"All right," Niall said, standing up straight and planting his staff. "Everyone concentrate on what we are doing. You may wake up groggy and disoriented, so focus on this: We must stop Uldred."

"Good luck," Leliana said. "And may the Maker watch over us."

"Amen," said Wynne. She activated the rune circle.

===_X_===

* * *

><p><em>End Notes:<em>

1000 Bloodsong points if you spotted the Narnia quote.

Another 1000 if you saw Bannon doing his Han Solo impression. ;)


	28. Closing the Circle

**Closing the Circle**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Mature

Flavor: Action/Adventure/Drama

Language: some

Violence: yes

Nudity: no

Sex: no

Other: mind control

_Author's Notes:_

Believe it or not, this actually started out even shorter than it is. :X

* * *

><p><strong>Closing the Circle<strong>

===#===

Bannon groaned and pushed himself up off the floor. The others were doing the same. Uldred had moved from the center of the chamber, perhaps to go among his prisoners and select a new victim. Or, more worryingly, to rally his thralls and abominations to fight. Did he realize yet that Sloth was gone?

Bannon turned and tugged Leliana over to him. "Come with me, we have to find Niall. The rest of y-"

A short, brown-haired mage scurried over to them. "Quickly, come with me!"

"Niall!" said Wynne. "Thank goodness."

Bannon held out an arm to forestall her going to the mage, having a sudden worrisome thought that Sloth's words about the mage's form might have had a different meaning. "You look somewhat like a mouse," Bannon told him.

"What?"

"I said, you look somewhat like a mouse."

Niall frowned. "We don't have time for personal remarks. Master Uldred won't be distracted for long."

"Right. Lead the way!"

Niall turned, and Bannon moved as if to follow closely, so he could snatch the scroll that was tucked in to back of the mage's belt. Then he steered Leliana aside and stopped. "Read this out," he told her in a low voice as he put it into her hands. "And no matter what happens, don't stop."

Leliana nodded and unrolled the scroll. "_Adralla Litiania_," she began in a strident voice.

"No!" Niall turned back, a flame appearing at his fingertips. Bannon threw himself against Leliana to knock her out of the way as the mage unleashed a gout of fire at them. They staggered and collapsed to the floor.

"Alistair! It's the demon!" Bannon's companions closed in on the mage. "Don't stop," he reminded Leliana as he shifted so his body covered her. She'd faltered when they'd landed, but then she continued.

Bannon looked up across the chamber. He could see some of the imprisoned mages shake themselves and begin to fight back. Some of their guards staggered, clutching their heads.

Another burst of flames erupted somewhere behind Bannon's left shoulder. The hiss of ice and the crackle of lightning answered. Spells started flying amongst the mages, people started screaming, demons started roaring.

Bannon got to his feet and helped Leliana up. Her eyes and attention didn't waver from the scroll. Her chant filled the air, but with the cacophony of battle going on, Bannon wasn't sure it was reaching the far corners of the chamber. He guided her towards a pocket of mages that had broken free of their energy prison. It must be Leliana's faith in the Maker that allowed her to concentrate while death and destruction rained down all around them. Bannon prayed the Maker made him worthy of her trust. He didn't want to die.

He switched his grip so he had Leliana around the waist with his left arm, and his sword in his right. He couldn't go about stabbing mages since he had no idea who was on which side until they attacked him, but it made him feel marginally more useful.

The circle of mages absorbed him and Leliana into their midst. "We need t- We need to get to the center," Bannon called, between explosions.

"This way," an older man said. He cleared a path with an arc of lightning.

An elven woman turned to Bannon and Leliana, casting a glowing halo over each of them. Then a magic bolt caught her in the back. She screamed and went down. Bannon twisted so Leliana was away from that direction.

An abomination trundled towards him, and Bannon stabbed at it gamely. It stopped short of his reach and began conjuring a fireball. The lightning mage blasted it before it could finish.

"_Move!_"

Bannon tugged Leliana on after the man, feeling as if he were in some crazy dance. Leliana began reading the litany over again. "This is not the way to the center," Bannon complained, as they moved in fits and starts and pitched mage duels.

"It's towards the First Enchanter," Ser Lightning Mage said. "And where Uldred is heading."

===#===

Thunder shook the unseen ceiling, and rain began sheeting down. Bannon was grateful, for it would dampen those fireballs. He guided Leliana around a trio of smoldering corpses. Then a blinding flash of lighting struck nearby, followed instantly by thunder. That part worried him. He wondered briefly where the rest of his troops were- Alistair, Morrigan, Wynne; did Zevran know his target was in this direction? He thought about calling them, but they were no doubt busy. Besides, anyone could tell where they were by following Leliana's chant of the Litany.

They came across someone lying on the floor, screaming. Bannon halted, his mouth dropping open. It was an elf, a young male, not even a full adult. He writhed and clawed at his face, drawing blood. He was ripping his own eyes out and crying like a wounded animal. What evil blood magic was this?

"It's a thrall," the lightning mage said. "Keep moving." He steadily fought to clear the way.

The elf suddenly sat bolt upright on his knees. "Master?" He turned his ruined, bloody face up into the rain. "Master?" he pleaded, his voice full of worship and loathing. "I will. Where are they?"

Bannon whipped his head around. Leliana was just behind him; she too was staring at the thrall in open-mouthed horror. And she'd stopped chanting. "Leliana! The Litany!"

She snapped her attention back to the scroll. "_Adralla Litiania!_"

"_NO!_" The young elf screamed and grabbed his ears as if to rip them off his head. After what he'd done to his eyes, Bannon had no doubt he'd succeed.

He stepped forward and drove his sword through the elf's body. Bannon grimaced; he'd aimed too low as not to hit the ribcage, which meant he should have angled up to hit the heart. The young mage didn't die right away. His hands blindly, gingerly quested along the steel blade sticking through him, as if trying to comprehend what had happened. His fingers brushed Bannon's hand on the hilt. "Thank you," he whispered. Blood flowed from his lips, and he fell back. Shaken, Bannon pulled his weapon free of the body.

"Get back!"

He stumbled away from the corpse, but not far enough. The body jumped as if seized by a puppeteer's ungentle hand, then exploded in a geyser of blood. Bannon was thrown back and knocked to the floor. He scrambled to his hands and knees, now thoroughly soaked. "Leliana?" He spit, tasting blood. It probably wasn't his own. He flicked his head and wiped his eyes. He crawled a few feet to the blood-soaked body of the Chantry Sister. "Leliana!"

She sat up with a groan, much to his relief. "The scroll..." Bannon retrieved it from the floor nearby. Blood was soaking the parchment from the back, blotting out the words.

"No, no, no," Bannon muttered, trying to find something- anything- clean and dry to blot it with. He wasn't going to find anything within a five-yard circle of the blast.

"It's all right," Leliana said, taking it from his hands. "I can recall it well enough." She leaned on him as she got to her feet. Her legs were shaky, but her voice was not. "_Adralla Litiania!_" she called defiantly. The chant rang like a battle cry in challenge to the Blood Mages.

Bannon got up, gritting his teeth. Uldred wasn't going to enslave any more elves or mages, not while Bannon still had breath left in his body. The rainstorm was letting up, leaving him still painted in blood.

===#===

They'd lost most of their escort mages, but they picked up a few more that Ser Lightning Mage had freed from one of Uldred's force prisons. The wedge, surrounding Leliana, pushed forward.

The demons and abominations grew thick. If any slipped through the cordon of mages, Bannon attacked viciously. He always fell back to Leliana's side. He couldn't help protect the mages; she was the top priority.

The tide of battle ebbed. They'd reached another magical prison and half the mage escort broke off. "Irving!"

"Erwin!"

Bannon didn't pay attention to what they were doing, for he spied Uldred across the body-littered floor. There was a figure kneeling at his feet. From the long blonde hair and slight build, Bannon thought it was a woman, but as the figure threw its head back, he saw the long, pointed ears. It was a young elven man.

"I... will... never...," the elf started shakily. The Litany of Adralla bolstered him. "I will never serve you again!"

Uldred's face twisted into a sneer. "I own you! Your death will serve just as well." The Blood Mage extended a hand, clenched his fist. The elf yelped as he was pulled aloft, his back arched as his limbs dangled. Uldred jerked his hand back as if tearing something from his former thrall, and indeed, the heart seemed to rip itself out of the elf's chest, fountaining blood in a crimson explosion.

Instead of being thrown back by the force, Uldred stood firm and let the crimson wave wash over him. He spread his arms, and the stream of blood began circling his body. His demon lieutenants pressed in around him. In unison, they raised their arms, and the blood funneled into a cyclone overhead. Flames from the demons ignited it, turning it into a raging firestorm.

Uldred lowered his gaze, leveling it right at Bannon. No... right behind Bannon. The Blood Mage roared a curse and unleashed the storm at Leliana.

Bannon dropped his blades. "Get down!" he yelled, if anyone were capable of heeding his warning. He turned and caught Leliana around the waist, tumbling her again to the hard floor. He didn't think the flames would pass over them this time. He straightened his arms so he wasn't lying on her, but had a gap that he hoped would buffer her. Someone was desperately yelling, "Shield! _Shield!_" and Bannon hoped his body did just that.

The flames washed over him in an instant, and he was screaming. The world filled with red-gold light, and then went black.

===_X_===

* * *

><p><em>End Notes:<em>

_His fingers brushed Bannon's hand on the hilt. "Thank you," he whispered._

- Take 10,000 Bloodsong Points if this ever happened to you in Thief 2.

I can't being to scratch the surface of the evil that is Uldred. If you are interested in gut-wrenching details, you should look up Aroihken's _Silver and Scarlet_ on An Archive of Our Own. Be warned, it contains _very_ graphic adult content.


	29. Afterwords

**Afterwords**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: some

Violence: no

Nudity: no

Sex: no

Other: none

_Author's Notes:_

And now for the really long part... the talky bits! (Topping 18 pages! Don't worry, it's divided into segments.)

My Brain makes up for not meeting Owain on the trek through the Tower. Some things are settled amongst the boys. Some things are unsettled amongst the ladies and Bannon. Finally, they're ready and set up for the next chapter.

* * *

><p><strong>Afterwords<strong>

===#===

**Awakening**

The next thing that permeated Bannon's consciousness was warmth. He seemed to be wrapped in blankets, his head resting on a deep, soft pillow. _Oh no._ He squeezed his eyes shut tightly. Was he still trapped in a dream? After all that hard work and fighting? Did he only dream that he'd escaped from the dream?

He cracked his eyes open, just barely, and blurred light flooded his vision. Was that sunlight across his bed? Were there crimson velvet curtains? No. He blinked and opened his eyes further. He was in some kind of dormitory, facing another row of beds and stained glass windows. He also noticed a dull pain spreading across his back and shoulders; his head hurt out to the tips of his ears, and his scalp itched. He wriggled a bit to free his right arm, and pain flared along the limb as well.

"Ah, you're awake," came the smoky tones of a familiar Antivan voice.

"Zev...?" Bannon tried to say, but it came out a little more than a hoarse rasp.

Zevran came alongside the bed. "Here, _amico_." He turned, and Bannon heard some water pouring. The sound was a bit distant, scratchy. Zevran brought him a goblet and wrapped and arm around Bannon's shoulders to help him sit up.

Bannon was parched and tried to gulp the cool water, but Zevran wouldn't tip the goblet far enough. "Easy," the Antivan murmured. "Slowly." As if Bannon had a choice. He drank the whole thing down at the assassin's tortuous pace. "There," Zevran said, laying the goblet aside. Bannon leaned back again. He had an ample pile of pillows that left him propped up. Zevran helped arrange them so he could sit up further.

Bannon frowned at the bandage around Zevran's head and covering half his face. "What happened to you?"

"Ah," he said, touching the offending linen with his fingertips. "It seems a demon took exception to my most handsome face and tried to rip it off." He grinned. "I thought it would give me some rakish scars, to go with my exotic tattoo, but alas." He sighed in mock disappointment. "The mages say it will heal without a trace."

"What a shame," Bannon replied in the same tone. He found his left arm a bit easier to move than his right, so he freed that from the blankets and reached to scratch his head.

Zevran said, "Though you ought to see yourself."

Bannon's questing fingertips didn't find his hair, but a thick wrapping of bandages. His eyes flew wide- Uldred had set him on fire! "My face?" He dared not touch it- was it melted? "Wh-what about my ears? Oh, Maker, not my ears?"

Zevran chuckled, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Oh, how vain you are," he scolded.

"Zevran," Bannon growled, not amused in the slightest.

The blond elf leaned over him and placed his hand against Bannon's cheek. "Do not worry about your handsome face," he said as he stroked his palm down the cheek and let his fingertips brush lingeringly down the Denerim elf's jaw. "The mages have been working on your many wounds. You will be fully healed."

Bannon felt heat building up under his blankets. Maker! Had anyone seen the elf touch him like that? He scowled and hoped he wasn't blushing in embarrassment.

The Antivan prattled on, oblivious to the affect his odd proclivities had on a staid and ordinary Fereldan. "You should have seen yourself when they brought you down. Or perhaps it is better you were unconscious. Some feared you would not survive the night." Zevran looked down, his mouth set in a serious straight line for once. Then he shook it off with a grin. "Well, they do not know how royally tough you are to kill! You will make a complete recovery, my friend. Oh- except for one thing." The look of sympathy he wore now was so theatrical, he had to be winding Bannon up.

Still, he felt a small amount of trepidation. "What?"

"Alas, my friend, they cannot heal hair."

"Hair!?" Bannon's left hand shot to his head again. "Maker, am I bald?"

Zevran laughed, and Bannon wished he had something to throw at the Antivan. "It will grow out fine, I am sure. Although to start, it will no doubt be styled... creatively." He grinned.

"I'm beginning to sympathize with that demon," Bannon grumbled.

"Tcha! You wound me, _amico_." Zevran affected to look wounded.

"I'd like to," Bannon shot back. "Did you kill Uldred?" he asked, more seriously.

"As much as I would like to claim that kill- alas, no."

"Who did kill him?"

Zevran shrugged. "I don't think anyone actually knows. It was quite chaotic. I do believe the popular version has it that the Senior Enchanter killed him."

"That works out well for the Senior Enchanter."

"Perhaps it will mitigate the fact he allowed a Blood Mage to rise to such power without his knowledge, or the ability to stop him," Zevran said.

"I thought that was the Knight Commander's job."

"Tower politics. Who can say?" Zevran spread his hands. "At least some of the healers have survived. Had there been more healers- or perhaps fewer wounded- you would have marched down from the battle in the triumphant parade."

"Was there a great deal of parading, feasting, and wenching?" Bannon asked.

Zevran quirked a thoughtful brow. "What the hell, that sounds good."

Bannon chuckled. "Though come to think of it, I'm rather glad not to have had to do all those stairs again." Zevran groaned, and Bannon chuckled again.

"Speaking of healers," Zevran said, "I believe it is time for another session with mine." Bannon followed his gaze to a plump young mage. "There is no shortage of magical bosoms one can rest one's weary and aching head upon."

The young woman looked over- Zevran hadn't bothered to keep his voice down. When she saw the two elves looking her way, she turned pink.

Bannon snorted. First Zevran was touching- Maker, _caressing!_- his face, then he was going on about ample bosoms. He couldn't understand that elf at all. _And I still haven't paid him back for... patting my bottom!_ Bannon felt his cheeks warm again, and pushed that thought aside.

"Don't worry," Zevran said, clapping him firmly on the shoulder. "I'll put in a good word for you." He winked and sauntered off.

Bannon managed a friendly grimace until the Antivan was out of earshot. Then he let out a strangled groan. Damn, now his arm was really hurting.

A few moments later, Alistair came by. "Oh good, you're awake." He shuffled closer to Bannon and looked around guiltily. "Here, I smuggled this in for you." He lifted a satchel. "I keep telling them Grey Wardens heal faster with-"

"Food!" Bannon sat up further, his stomach suddenly growling at him.

"Shh!" Alistair gave him the bag while he rearranged the pillows into a higher back rest.

Bannon grabbed an apple in one hand and a cheese wedge in the other and was alternating bites. "Food," he reiterated between chomps. "Thank the Maker!"

"You're welcome," Alistair quipped with a little grin.

"Oh, Alistair, is that...?" The elf's nose twitched.

"Uh huh."

"Is it?"

"Mm hm."

Bannon put the cheese in his hand with the apple and dove into the bag. "Bacon!"

"Yes it is!"

He pulled out a strip of bacon. It was no longer hot and dripping, of course, but cooled and coagulated. Bannon slowly took a bite, closing his eyes as the salty, meaty, fatty, crispy, leathery goodness melted on his tongue. He groaned and chewed slowly. It was so good.

He was still starving, so he gobbled another bite or two of cheese before he went back to the savory stick of bacon.

"Don't let the mages catch you with that," Alistair told him. "Oh, and if they do? Tell Wynne I was never here."

Bannon chuckled, but made note. He tucked the half-eaten apple, and two of its fellows he found in the satchel, down the left side of his bed, and the other wedge of cheese down the right. The waxed-paper parcel containing the bacon went straight down the middle, tucked between his thighs. Nobody was going to take that off him without a fight.

"You look all right," Bannon told Alistair, once he was able to slow down a bit on the food. "Not hurt bad, were you?"

"Oh, nah! I was just a bit cooked, a little electrocuted, and my left leg was rendered into a block of ice..."

"But compared to some," Bannon clarified.

Alistair sobered. "Yeah, compared to some. You know, I'm thankful you're alive."

"Me, too. Let's not get mushy about it, though."

"Oh, no; never that."

"Everyone else? Is everyone...? Did they make it?"

Alistair nodded. "Morrigan is... Morrigan. Wynne, now she's a tough old bird." He looked around quickly and hunched, lowering his voice. "And I never said that. Leliana had some bumps and bruises, but she's healed up by now. Zevran's around here somewhere, refusing to stay in his bed and trying to get into everyone else's."

"Good, good." Bannon nodded. "What about Niall?"

"Niall?"

"The mage? The one who was with us in the Fade?" Bannon frowned. "The mouse," he clarified.

Alistair looked uncomfortable. "You know he didn't make it back with us. There was a demon already in his body."

Of course Bannon remembered that. Niall hadn't really recognized them, or Bannon's quip about looking like a mouse. It could only have been the demon, the one Niall said he'd traded forms with. Suddenly, Bannon felt chilled. "You killed him?"

"I..." Alistair looked away guiltily. "He was an abomination."

"He was alive and well in the Fade! All we had to do was..." Bannon gestured vaguely a moment. "Like Morrigan and Connor."

Alistair squirmed and shrank in on himself more. "Well... if we had mages... and _time_. If we weren't all fighting for our lives. Look, there really wasn't time to try to tie him up and, and... and ask the demon, 'Could you please wait here?' and-"

"All right, Alistair! Easy." Bannon took a breath, both for himself and the Templar. "You're right. There was nothing else that could have been done."

"I'm sorry," Alistair said quietly.

Bannon felt the backs of his eyes prickling horribly, and he wondered why he was so upset about some shem mage he barely even knew. He rubbed his face, trying to erase whatever memories or feelings were bothering him. "It's all right," he told the Templar dully. It wasn't so hard. "So... everyone else? Um, Sten is still here?"

"Yeah," Alistair reported, the joviality gone from his demeanor as well. "He's complaining, of course. No darkspawn to kill, and mages still alive. The Senior Enchanter is alive and well- of course, or we wouldn't be here, would we?" Alistair scratched his head.

"And the treaties? The mages will uphold their end of the bargain?"

"Uh, I haven't asked."

Bannon rubbed his eyes again, so the former Templar didn't see him rolling them.

"Er, they kinda want a big meeting, once you're better," Alistair said sheepishly. "They did stock us with some provisions- actually, the money to buy them, being as they're all out of healing potions and everything." Bannon only hoped no one had gone through his pack and discovered the items he'd rescued from the Greed Demons. "Oh, Bodahn is in town. He's wondering where we're heading next. Do you have any idea?"

Bannon shrugged, not having given it much thought. "I don't even know where we are in relation to where we need to go. I've never been outside Denerim."

"Actually, we're just about smack dab in the center of Ferelden," Alistair said. "We could head anywhere."

"I'm sure the mages must have a map," Bannon said. "Actually, see if you can get a map of Ferelden, and any more detailed maps they have of where we need to go. Like the forest where the Dalish live?"

"Well, I don't think anyone has that. But a map of the mountains and directions to Orzammar would be handy. I'll ask about that." Alistair thought a moment. "Maybe I can ask that fellow who was helping Brother Genitivi."

"That scholar? The one who was searching for Andraste's Ashes?" Alistair nodded. "Does he have any information?" Like where the legendary ashes were hidden would be good.

"No... he's kinda in a bad way since the battle. He tends to faint a lot." Alistair frowned.

"Was he one of Uldred's thralls?"

"Oh, no," Alistair said quickly. "They're much worse off."

"Some survived the battle?"

Alistair nodded. "There were three. But one's already managed to take his own life. The other two, they're being watched carefully. One's asking to be made Tranquil. They're not sure it's safe, though."

"Tranquil?"

"Mages have a special connection to the Fade," Alistair explained. "It's what gives them their magic. There's a method by which this connection can be severed."

"Then they won't have magic?" Bannon frowned in thought. If mages could become ordinary people, why didn't they? Sure they had power, but magic was feared by nearly everyone. Mages were so dangerous, they had to be kept contained- that's what the Tower was for. But if people didn't have magic, they wouldn't have to go there. Or hide all the time, like Morrigan. They could stay with their families, lead normal lives.

"They wouldn't have magic, or at least wouldn't be able to use it," Alistair confirmed. "But they also wouldn't be able to dream. It also does something to their minds." He frowned. "They can still think, but it's like they can't feel anything. They never get angry or scared, but they are never happy, either. They just turn cold. They don't care about anything."

Bannon's lips twisted as he contemplated that. "Sounds awful. Why would anyone want to do that?"

"Mostly to be sure they can't be possessed by a demon." Alistair's face darkened. "In this case, though, I think that what they're feeling, from being Uldred's thralls... He made them... he made them do things. To themselves, to others. I couldn't stay and listen to it." Alistair broke off and rubbed a hand over his face. "I don't understand it. I mean, I understand wanting a slave, to have someone to make your tea, to fetch your slippers, to scrub your floors, to do your laundry. I even understand wanting a slave you can order into your bed whenever you want. To do whatever you want. I get that." He sighed and looked at Bannon almost pleadingly. "But I don't understand doing something- torturing someone- just to be cruel? Why? Why would anyone do that?"

Bannon chewed thoughtfully on his lip. He remembered the thralls he'd seen in the battle. Apparently, Uldred liked young male elves. He shivered. Then he recalled Vaughn, and the times the bastard would set his dogs on elven children, just to watch them run, to hear them scream. "Some people are just evil, Alistair." The Templar nodded dully, his head down. "Why won't they make the guy Tranquil? If that's what he wants."

"Well, it's a magical ritual. They're not sure how the residual Blood Magic will affect it."

"But Uldred's dead. Shouldn't they be free of his spells?"

"If it was a simple mind control spell, they would. That sort of spell? They cut themselves, they cast it on you. If you're strong, if you have a strong will, you can resist it. A Blood Mage can only control you as long as the spell's power lasts. But this, the thralls..." Alistair looked away, his voice distant. "He takes their own blood to use against them. There's rituals that bind them. They-" he broke off and looked at the floor. "They say it might be permanent."

"Maybe they should do this Tranquil thing on them, then."

"It might kill them."

Bannon couldn't shake the sight of that elf's bloody eyesockets searching him out, of his whispered gratitude as he died. "It might be the best thing for them."

Alistair gnawed at his lip, but he didn't argue the point. Bannon's stomach turned and he rubbed his belly. Alistair looked at him. "Do you need the chamberpot?"

"Wh-? No," Bannon said quickly. "No, I'm fine." Grey Warden iron stomach and all. He hoped.

"Oh, good. Well, I better go see about those maps, then."

Bannon nodded. "And tell Bodhan we'll figure out where we're going... um, later today or tomorrow or something. If he has to leave before then... I don't know, maybe find out where we can get our own cart?"

"Refugees have been through," Alistair said. "They've likely not left a wheeled conveyance of any kind."

Bannon grumbled. "Maybe there's a cartwright?"

"I think there's still a leatherworker. And as soon as you're on your feet, I'm taking you to buy a helmet." Alistair pointed a no-nonsense finger at the elf.

Bannon thought it prudent. He unconsciously tried to touch his left ear, but only winced. "Zevran needs one, too." Alistair made a frowning face. "What?"

"Bannon, seriously? There's no way we can tell what his real intentions are. He could be biding his time-"

"Alistair."

"-No, hear me out. Yes, he could be telling the truth, but he could also change his mind as soon as the wind changes and these other Crow assassins catch up with us."

Alistair's concerns were valid. Bannon raised a hand to placate the Templar. "Listen, do you remember that dream you had, in the Fade?"

Suddenly, Alistair looked uncomfortable. "Um. Sort of. It's all a bit fuzzy. Like a dream after you wake up. Do you remember it?" Bannon nodded. "Oh. I... sort of remember telling you some hideously embarrassing things about my childhood." He grimaced as Bannon nodded again. "Well, look... you're not going to tell anyone about that... are you?"

"Of course not, Alistair," Bannon said. "You trust me, don't you?"

"Yes. I'm sorry."

Bannon waved that off. "It's all right. But I also saw Zevran's dream."

"What was he dreaming about?" the former Templar asked. Bannon just gave him a long look until he fidgeted. "All right; I was just testing." He looked down sheepishly.

"I can tell you without a doubt, Alistair. Zevran wants to be free of the Antivan Crows. All we have to do is help him. He'll never give us up to them. He's on our side."

"But... how can you be _sure?_"

Bannon sighed. "Alistair."

"It _was_ just a dream."

"No, it wasn't," the elf insisted. "The demons read our minds, our deepest fears and desires. You said that you trust me, Alistair. You have to trust me on this. I _know_."

Alistair nodded slowly. "Well, all right. I trust you." He looked down the length of the infirmary. "Just don't expect me to like him."

Bannon followed his gaze to the far doorway. The plump young woman had apparently given Zevran the slip, because the Antivan was now animatedly chatting up a tall, bald, harried-looking man. "No, I have no doubt he'll continue to be his usual annoying self."

"And you'll... keep an eye on him?"

"Yes, I'll watch him," Bannon promised.

The mage escaped as Zevran turned his attention to Leliana and Morrigan, who brushed him off as they came into the infirmary. Leliana's eyes alit as she saw Bannon talking to Alistair.

Alistair said, "I best be going, then. Don't want to tire out the mages' prime patient. Oh, and remember, if anyone catches you with that food, I wasn't here."

Alistair made his way out, and Leliana took his palce at Bannon's side. Morrigan sauntered along more slowly, coming up opposite the Chantry Sister.

"Thank the Maker you are all right," Leliana said, taking Bannon's hand gently between both of her own.

"I am, believe me."

"I must tell you this," she said, her eyes sincere. "That was the bravest, noblest, and most heroic thing I have ever seen. You saved my life."

Aha, so short, dark, and handsome elves weren't bad heroes after all. Bannon was about to smirk and say something smug, but before he could, Leliana leaned over and kissed him. It was on the cheek, where it emerged from the bandages; chaste, but lingering. Bannon's snappy response flew out of his head on whirring wings. "Um," he managed.

"Shadows at night can fool you," she told him softly. "Things in the darkness may not be what they seem."

"Are you talking about...? The dream?" Bannon looked at her, confused. He didn't recall seeing anything in the darkness around the dream Chantry.

She blinked, and clouds behind her eyes lifted. "I owe you my life," she said gravely. "As do many people here. Someday, all of Ferelden may owe you their lives."

_From your lips to the Maker's ears_, Bannon thought.

"I must go." The eerie Sister took her leave abruptly.

_Strange woman_. Bannon glanced towards the door, but Zevran had disappeared. Maybe he could entice another kiss out of Leliana, when the assassin was around to see it. _That_ would knock the wind out of his sails.

A smug smile spread slowly across his lips. It fell off as soon as he noticed Morrigan watching him with hawklike intensity. His back started to itch horribly, right between his shoulderblades. Bannon squirmed. "Uh, Morrigan," he said, when it seemed the witch didn't have any scathing remarks to deliver to him at the moment. "You look well."

She blinked, finally, and tucked her forearms across her midriff. "I am. I am pleased to see you are alive as well."

"You are?"

She arched a brow. "You think Alistair can handle this job by himself?"

"Oh." Bannon plucked at the edge of his blanket. "Thank you." He squirmed back against his pillows.

"Is something bothering you?"

"It's my back; it's itching like crazy."

"Allow me."

Did he have a choice? Morrigan didn't pause to give him one. She snaked her arm around his back and leaned close, bringing her cleavage to his nose level again. He quickly found somewhere else to look as her fingernails lightly drew down his back. "Here?"

Bannon gulped. "A little higher." Maker, were the witch and the nun fighting over him? He felt like a bone that had caught the interest of two mabari.

"The mages should have you fully healed by tonight."

"How long have we been here? After Uldred, I mean."

"One and one-half days."

"Well, they're not kicking me out of this bed before tomorrow morning."

Morrigan chuckled softly in her throat. "You know, most non-mages have difficulty recalling their dreams."

At last, what she was really here for: fishing for what he might remember, and if any of it was about Morrigan and her... relationship with her mother. "It's all fuzzy and far away," Bannon lied. "I do remember you were a great help to us. Thank you, Morrigan." He looked up into her eyes as he said this, so she would know he was sincere. He should have stopped there. "I remember a mouse mage."

"He was a fool," Morrigan said coldly. "He practically handed his body over to a demon."

Bannon looked away quickly, struck again by Niall's death. He pulled away from her hand. "Thank you, Morrigan," he said flatly. "I think I need some rest, now."

"Of course," she said, straightening. "Just don't forget what they say about scratching one's back. You owe me."

Bannon sank sullenly into his pillows. Dammit, now what had he gotten himself into?

===#===

* * *

><p><strong>Healing<strong>

Bannon had an hour or so to devour his illicit snacks before the healers came to work on him. He felt stronger after eating, but also a bit... bloated. He tried to sneak out of bed to find a garderobe, but he was thwarted by a balding mage with a bland smile. Bannon tried his best bullshit on him, but nothing worked. Instead, the mage calmly pulled out a bedpan and tried to slip it into position.

"Hey!" Bannon yelped, trying to scramble away. "Look, seriously, I can walk!"

He was rescued by the healers, led by Wynne. "Owain, what are you doing?"

"I am assisting the patient with his eliminatory functions."

"I don't need assistance," Bannon assured them.

"If you were still weak and barely conscious, you would be more appreciative of Owain's help," Wynne told him. Bannon shudderd to think of this eerily bland human touching him while he was unconscious. Wynne said to the mage, "Owain, go draw a bath for the patient. He should be ready for one when we are finished here."

"Yes, Senior Enchanter." Unhurriedly, Owain replaced the bedpan and then walked away to attend to the bath.

"He's not going to try to help me wash, is he?" Bannon asked nervously.

"You should be more grateful for the services the Tranquil perform without complaint or resentment," Wynne scolded again. "Now lie down so we can perform the healing on you." She and the plump young woman from before began removing Bannon's pillows.

"That's a Tranquil?" he asked, scooting back down properly in his bed.

"He is, yes." Wynne put a little emphasis on the pronoun.

Bannon decided that his earlier assessment of the Tranquil, as described by Alistair, was too conservative. That... man, if he could still be described as such, made the hairs of his neck prickle. If he still had hairs on his neck. "Will my hair grow back?" he asked anxiously. "Will I have scars? What about my ears?"

"Just relax," Wynne told him. "You'll be fine."

There were six mages with her, including the two younger ones who had been guarding the children with her, a somber elf of indeterminate age, a young woman with a bandaged arm, and a dark-skinned human with short-cropped hair. They gathered around the bed, three on each side with Wynne at the foot.

The older man said, "If you're not quiet and still during the healing, you'll come out all crooked. Especially your face."

"Jago!" Wynne scolded. She seemed to do a lot of that.

He shrugged. "I thought you wanted a good patient. Don't blame me, then."

"Just lie still," Wynne told Bannon in a softer voice.

He had no intention of making things difficult for his healers. The mages bowed their heads as if in prayer. The air seemed to grow darker as they slowly extended their hands towards each other. Then a blue light sprang up around the circle. The mages turned their palms towards Bannon, and he closed his eyes as the light flooded into him. It was not cold, but warm.

All the pain and aches and horrible prickling and itching in his scalp and down his body suddenly ceased, replaced by a pleasant tingle. He may have moaned softly at the sensation. He floated in a warm, pain-free wash of light.

He didn't know how long it was until it ended (all too soon), when he drifted down and blinked his eyes open. The healing light dimmed and extinguished. The mages folded their hands, heads bowed. For a moment all were silent and still.

And then, just like that, the mages all bustled away. Wynne stayed a few minutes longer, readjusting his pillows. "Here, let me help you with the bandages."

"Did you bring a mirror?" he asked her. Wynne just rolled her eyes. "Um, I didn't get a chance to tell everyone thank you."

"We don't do this for thanks, or for money." The older mage unwound the bandages from his arm. There was no indication it had ever been hurt.

"The Chantry does it for money."

Wynne stopped as she reached for the bandages on his head. She looked at him a long moment. "I suppose it does, at that." He winced as she tugged at the wrappings. "Considering what you have done for us, it is we who should be thanking you."

"You think I only did it so we could have allies to battle the darkspawn," he mumbled.

"Why did you do it?" she asked plainly.

Bannon shrugged and picked at the knots holding the bandages on his chest and back. "Fighting the Blight is important."

"Yes, it is."

"Mages are particularly useful in battles."

"Yes, they are."

"Then I guess it must be true," Bannon said. What did she want him to say? That he felt sorry for the mages, trapped in a Tower with no way out? He felt pity for those awaiting slaughter? How could he say that and not sound like a smiling charlatan trying to get the mages to do what he wanted?

She looked at him again. Her blue eyes seemed soft. "I suppose it is true, at that."

Bannon reached up and rubbed a hand over his head. His hair was clumped and brittle, and quite short. "Ugh." At least his ears seemed intact.

"Yes, we'll have to get Owain to give you a trim." Wynne looked up. The Tranquil was just returning, carrying a folded robe. "Well, I will let you get dressed in peace. Owain, when he is ready, please take him to the bath. Oh, on the way there, show him to the lavatory facilities."

"Yes, Senior Enchanter."

"Thank you, Wynne. Um, and Owain."

"I'll see you later, at the meeting," she told him.

"Meeting?"

"After you're refreshed, the Knight Commander and First Enchanter would like a few words with you and your companions." Wynne patted his hand in a grandmotherly fashion, then took her leave.

===#===

* * *

><p><strong>The Tranquil<strong>

Owain let him visit the lavatory alone, but remained on hand in the bathing chamber. Living in tight quarters in the alienage left Bannon anything but shy. Nevertheless, the placid, staring human disconcerted him. He suggested the man go sit outside, but the Tranquil seemed content to just stand there. Bannon gave up and decided to just get on with his business before the water got cold.

"Why were you made Tranquil?" he asked, to keep his mind occupied. "Do you know?" He didn't know if such a question was considered rude or not, but if they had no feelings, they shouldn't be bothered, right?

"I asked to be made Tranquil."

"Why?"

"I was afraid to attempt the Harrowing," Owain said calmly. "I feared demons. I used to have terrible nightmares."

"Nightmares about what?

The man didn't answer for a while. His eyes were unfocussed, as if reviewing old memories. "My family," he said at last.

Bannon didn't want to pursue that avenue of discussion. "Being Tranquil is better than being dead, I guess. Do you remember... how you were before? Are you happier, now?"

"Before, I was confused and afraid. Now I am not. It is better."

"Weren't you afraid when the fighting started? All the killing? And the demons running loose?"

"No."

"What did you do when all that started happening?"

"I tended my stockroom."

The elf looked up at him. "You didn't hide?"

"No."

"But... other mages were being captured, taken to Uldred for that Harrowing thing- having demons put inside them- the same thing you were afraid of. You didn't help them?"

"It was my duty to tend the stockroom." He didn't even sound guilty or evasive.

"You didn't do anything?" Bannon pressed.

"I cleaned the stockroom."

In the face of Owain's unshakeable calm, Bannon became more angry. "You didn't even care? Didn't you care what he was doing to the mages; the people he hurt? The people he killed?"

"It did not concern me."

"What if they had come to take you away? To put a demon inside you?"

"That is not possible with a Tranquil."

"So Uldred could have taken over, started a new empire, enslaving everyone inside the Tower and out, and you would do what? Just keep sweeping?"

Owain blinked placidly. "Yes."

"Did you even think about the captured mages?"

"It was not my concern."

"Well what do you think now?"

The Tranquil lowered his eyes, searching his thoughts. "I think... they must have felt fear."

"You don't feel fear."

"No."

"They must have felt pain, too. Do Tranquil still feel pain?" How could this guy be so calm and uncaring?

"Yes." The man looked to Bannon again, answering his questions directly.

"Well, they felt all that, and a lot of people died. You don't feel the slightest bit of guilt?"

"That is not possible."

Bannon growled in frustration. "You could have done something! You could have helped them, let them hide in your closet. You could have saved someone!"

Owain considered this, his lips pursed in thought. Then he said, "It is likely that I would have been killed had I interfered. So, in the end, it would have been futile anyway."

"You don't know that for sure."

"No. I don't."

"And you still think this is better than being dead?"

"Yes."

"Well... I'm not so sure any more." Bannon looked for a towel. The bath had grown cold.

===#===

Healed, well-rested, and well-scrubbed, Bannon was given a fine new outfit to wear. It seemed the Tower had a sudden surplus of clothing and other personal items. These fit him well, though he wasn't sure about the long robes over the pants. He hoped they hadn't belonged to one of Uldred's thralls. The thought made his skin itch, so he shoved it aside. His scalp itched, too, but that was from the short, bristly hair. Owain had given it a trim, to even out the singed ends. It ended up looking scarily like Alistair's hair, though a bit longer on the front. Bannon hadn't worn his hair short since he was little. His ears felt a bit drafty, and he couldn't wait for it to grow back in.

Owain led him to the Knight Commander's antechamber and then departed. Sten was waiting there. He looked... well, the same as always. Bannon went over to him.

"You are alive," the grey giant stated flatly.

"Surprised?"

"Yes."

Bannon huffed in dry humor. "Maybe you should learn to listen to me."

"Your skills in leadership are without reproach." Bannon barely had time to feel smug before Sten continued blithely, "The wisdom of your judgement is severely lacking."

"Well," Bannon grumbled; "We'll see about that."

===#===

* * *

><p><strong>The Meeting<strong>

Bannon, Alistair, Sten, and Leliana were ushered into Knight Commander Greagoir's office. Morrigan was wisely absent; she'd found herself a room in town. As for Zevran, they hadn't looked for him. Bannon just hoped the assassin didn't get them all kicked out.

The Knight Commander stood at the left of his desk and formally introduced the Wardens' party to the others in the room. The last Templar to hold out against the demons was Ser Cullen. Ser Lightning Mage was Senior Enchanter Erwin; Wynne they knew; and of course, the First Enchanter Irving. The First Enchanter looked like hell. He was an older human, wrinkled. He had dark bags under his bloodshot eyes. His sallow skin seemed ready to slough off, to reveal a misshapen demon within. But when he smiled, his humanity shone out like a beacon.

"I am very pleased to be able to at last personally thank our savior," he said in a warm, rich voice. He stepped forward and extended his hand. Bannon took it; the mage's grasp was firm. "Warden Tabris. Thank you."

Bannon felt he should have bowed, but he couldn't exactly manage that while shaking hands. "It is an honor, ser. And I couldn't have done it on my own," he added. "My companions and a great many people fought Uldred and the demons."

Irving nodded. "Still, we owe you a great debt. Do not hesitate to ask the Circle for anything."

"Well, I'm sure you've heard about the Grey Warden treaties and the Blight." He waited for Irving to nod before going on. "I know the Tower is still reeling and needs to heal and build up its strength. Don't worry," he reassured the First Enchanter; "we're not anywhere near ready to go to war against the darkspawn horde."

"We will make every effort to be prepared," Irving said.

"The Templars will, as well," Greagoir added.

"Knight Commander!" the young Templar, Cullen, blurted. "You can't be contemplating an alliance with these-" he bit off the words, shooting a scathing glare across at the mages. "When the Right of Annulment gets here..."

"That's enough, Ser Cullen," Greagoir snapped. "You have made your opinion on the matter thoroughly clear."

"Please!" In desperation, the knight turned to Bannon and Alistair. "Try to convince him to see the danger. You know what was happening up there! You _know_ it is impossible to tell if a mage is possessed, if the demon goes deep. They could rise up and slaughter us all!"

"I agree," said Sten.

"We saved the mages," Alistair insisted.

"Look," Bannon said, "any Abomination there attacked us and was killed. They're _gone_."

"And if a Blood Mage clouded your mind?" Cullen argued. "You would believe anything."

"The Litany of Adralla protected our minds," Leliana said. "It freed everyone from Uldred's control."

"You can't know that for sure."

"It even worked on the thralls," Bannon said.

Cullen raked his hands through his hair. "Knight Commander, can't you see? You're risking the nation of Ferelden- the whole world!"

"I trust the judgement and word of the First Enchanter," Greagoir said levelly, though his brows lowered like a threatening stormcloud.

"He was probably the first one possessed!"

"That is enough, Captain! Wait outside. I will speak to you later," the Knight Commander growled.

"Yes, ser," Cullen bit out. He pressed a fist to his chestplate and walked out.

"You foolishness will doom you all," Sten said.

"This is not your homeland, Sten," Bannon told him. "We don't enslave anyone here in Ferelden, and we're not about to change."

"The beasts who wear the faces of men-"

"Are not your concern." Bannon went to the giant and lowered his voice. "I think you should go back to town. Find out if there is a cartwright, and a leatherworker, and see if he can make leather armor for an elf. Since there have been refugees through, supplies might be short, so take a look around in different places." That, he hoped, would keep the huge anti-mage proponent out of their hair.

Sten's lips drew back slightly, revealing small, even teeth. Then he said, "You are correct. It is not my concern if you allow your _saarebas_ to destroy your people." He turned and walked out without another word.

Bannon glanced at Alistair again, as he spoke to the Commander. "I understand that what provisions- or coin- you could provide, you have done so." The former Templar nodded. Bannon smiled charmingly at Greagoir. "Then I hope it's not too much to ask to have some guest quarters for the night?"

Irving chuckled. "Fear not, we have rooms for your friends, and of course yourself, since you're now out of the infirmary."

"Thanks to your healers."

Irving waved that off. "The least we could do, Warden."

"Actually," Wynne said, speaking up; "there is something else we can do." She looked between Alistair and Bannon. "I understand the Wardens are looking to have a healer accompany them."

Bannon glanced at Alistair. The elf had almost forgotten the most important request! Good thing Alistair had been chatting with these folks. Bannon made note to give Alistair some bonus pay.

Erwin said, "Do you have someone in mind, Wynne?"

"Yes. If the First Enchanter and Knight Commander will grant my request, I would like to go."

All the men in the room were taken back by surprise. Leliana said, "We would be honored by your presence, Senior Enchanter."

"Of course we would," Bannon said quickly. "But we are traveling a great distance, and sleeping rather rough."

"And you're worried an old woman wouldn't be able to keep up?" Wynne asked him candidly.

"We wouldn't want to be any trouble for you," Bannon replied smoothly. "And we do seem to attract a lot of danger."

"Then you will need an experienced healer," she countered. "And I have studied other branches of magic. I am not useless in a fight."

Bannon thought back. She _had_ been very useful in handling those demons. He looked over at Alistair who looked as if he'd swallowed a bug. Clearly he was uncomfortable at bringing along an old woman, but was trained to be too polite to say so.

"I am not that old," Wynne was saying to the Knight Commander. He appeared ready to retreat. "I have a dozen years of travel left in me, at least."

"Ah, well, if the First Enchanter thinks it best," the knight hedged.

Irving nodded, recognizing that he'd been left with the decision to defy the Senior Enchanter or not. "If you really do think it best, Wynne...?"

"I do."

"Very well, then."

"Thank you, First Enchanter, Knight Commander," she said graciously.

"Welcome aboard," Bannon said with a bemused smile. Leliana and Alistair echoed his sentiments, with disparate levels of reservation. "I'm sure Leliana can assist you with provisions and necessities you'll need to pack." The bard brightened at the prospect. Before the meeting could break up, Bannon wanted to ask one more thing. "First Enchanter? I have another question..."

"Yes? What is it?"

"When we were trapped in the Fade, a mage named Niall helped us escape."

The old mage's look turned somber. "Niall is among the dead, I'm afraid."

"Yes," Bannon nodded. "He didn't make it back with us; there was already a demon that was inhabiting his body. But... what's going to happen to him?" Bannon wrinkled his brow, trying to figure out the metaphysical implications. "His spirit was trapped in the Fade."

Irving spread his hands. "He will be free to go beyond the Fade, into the Light of the Maker."

"But... he was trapped in a mouse's body. I mean, his spirit was stuck in a mouse form." Bannon just couldn't believe Niall's spirit was dead. It wasn't even in his body when it was killed. "Couldn't he still be there? Somehow?"

"I'm sorry, Ser Bannon," Irving said gently. "But there is just no way to know for sure how things work in the spirit realm."

Alistair put a hand on the elf's shoulder. "Bannon, he's gone."

Leliana touched him lightly on the other arm. "Do not fear. He will not be forgotten."

"He was, uh," Bannon blinked and cleared his throat of a sudden frog. "He was a hero."

"We will raise a toast to him at the feast," Irving said.

"Feast?" Bannon's pointy ears perked up. "Now that sounds good."

The old mage smiled gently. "I'll have Belanna show you to your rooms."

The informal meeting broke up, and the atmosphere became more relaxed. Leliana went to converse with Greagoir and Cullen. Bannon was thankful the meeting was so short and relatively painless. He and Alistair went to the Senior Enchanters. Alistair was trying to recommend things for Wynne to pack. Although his first bit of advice was to travel lightly, his list was rather long.

Bannon looked up at Erwin. "I want to thank you for protecting us, Ser Lightning Mage."

A grin split the mage's beard. "It was you, Ser Grey Warden, and your faithful companion, who were protecting us." He offered his hand, and Bannon took it with growing confidence. He could get used to this admiration from humans. Again he was faintly surprised at the softness of the man's hand, but he supposed mages didn't really do any heavy work, and their staves were not for hand to hand fighting.

The guide arrived, so Bannon and Alistair took their leave. "I'll see you at the feast," the elf called over his shoulder at the mages.

"I'm looking forward to your speech," Erwin said, still smiling.

Bannon smiled and nodded back. Outside the door, he and Alistair looked at each other. "Speech?" they said in identical trepidation.

===#===

* * *

><p><strong>The Speech<strong>

Belanna was a blonde elven woman. It always took Bannon by surprise to see elven mages in a Tower he still thought of as a human institution. She was a bit older than he, and she sported the plain cropped hair and contemplatively vacant expression he'd come to recognize as the mark of the Tranquil. Such a waste.

He walked behind her with Alistair. It was good to be a hero, Bannon mused, thinking about the feast. But those fateful words 'a speech' loomed over his head. "All right, Alistair; you'll give a Grey Warden speech, right?"

"What, _me?_"

"Yes, you. You know Templars. And you know mages. Didn't they teach you speech-making in Templar training?"

"No!"

"Well don't look at me, I certainly never gave a speech in the alienage," Bannon pointed out. "What about that... that schoolmarm you had? 'A good Tem-plah has good pos-chah while giving a spee-chah,'" Bannon mimicked in a high-pitched voice.

"We don't give speeches," Alistair insisted. "Just... you know- 'Halt, Apostate,' and 'Die, Maleficar,' and 'Taste the steely wrath of my blade, demon.'"

"See? You're a natural."

"In a hall full of mages? Those will go down well." Alistair rolled his eyes. They turned down another hall. "You're the Warden Commander; you have to give the speeches."

"I'm the what?" This was the first Bannon had heard.

"Well, we agreed you were in charge, right? You're in charge of all the Grey Wardens in Ferelden; that makes you the Warden Commander."

"Because I'm in charge."

"Yes."

"Of all two of us?"

"Yep!" Alistair smiled smugly. "That makes you the Commander."

"Then I command you to give a speech," Bannon demanded.

"Oh, no!" Alistair warded off the very thought with emphatic gestures. "Noooo, no. Hey, I know! Get your friend Zevran to do it. He likes flapping his lips."

The two men stopped in the hall and looked at each other, brows quirked as they contemplated such a scenario. A moment later, they both said simultaneously, "Naah!"

"What about Sten?" Bannon offered. That's what they needed, especially if the speech was going to come before the food. Short, succinct, then get to the grub.

"Can he even manage five words at a time?" Alistair asked doubtfully.

"Um... 'You're all going to die'?"

"Oh yes, that will work out so much better than 'Die, mage scum!'" Alistair resumed walking.

"No, I know what we need," Bannon said. "Leliana!" He turned down the hall, calling for the bardic nun. "Leliana...!"

===#===

Bannon explained the predicament to Leliana on the way to his quarters. He desperately needed a bard to make a sound, stirring speech. "Or a song! A really uplifting and inspiring song."

"I have not had time to compose a song about the plight of the Tower."

"Well, can't you just take a popular song and change the words to fit the situation?"

Leliana turned and looked at him aghast. "Steal another bard's work? Plagiarize their words and twist them for my own purposes?"

"Um... yeah?"

She just gave him an icy, scathing look and continued on.

Bannon sighed and scratched his head. This short hair was driving him nuts. How was it that mages could heal flesh, mend bone, leave no scars, and yet they couldn't make his hair grow? Surely someone must have thought up a spell for that. They couldn't study fireballs and lightning and other spells of destruction all the time. Where were the helpful spells like healing, and making crops grow? And making hair grow.

And changing its colour. He always wondered how he would look as a redhead like his cousins. But he didn't have the right eye colour to match. What he really wished for was truly black hair. Black like a raven's wing, not this plain brown. It was a dark brown to be sure, with a nice sheen, but what was more plain than brown hair? Something exotic would be better.

Bannon looked at his borrowed clothes, which were accented with rich purple. Now there was a dark colour that might work with his eyes. He wondered if purple hair would look rich and alluring or just stupid, as if he'd fallen head first into a wine vat.

Meanwhile, Leliana was escaping. Bannon trotted to catch up. "Well, but you can give a speech?"

"You should give the speech, Bannon. You're the hero."

"Well..." That word distracted him as he tried it on. He shook his head to clear it. "Well can't you write me a speech?" he begged.

She sighed, in that same put-upon manner he'd heard so often from his father and hahren Valendrian. "I will help you write it," she said, emphasis on who was helping and who was (supposedly) writing.

===#===

"Now, what do you wish to accomplish with your speech?" Leliana sat perched on a stool by the writing desk in Bannon's guest room. She held a thin stick, singed on the end for charcoal, and bits of paper scrap were scattered on the desk.

Bannon sat on the soft armchair, one foot propped on the round table in the center of the room. He was busy polishing off the fruit that had been in the bowl on it. "All right, we really need to boost morale and tell these mages how they're ready to defeat a Blight." He paused to spit some grape seeds towards the bowl. "And we need to throw the Templars a bone. They really got their-" He stopped and looked around. There weren't any Templars here, nor outside guarding the door, but you never knew when one of those Tranquil were hanging about, imitating statues. Bannon didn't want them eavesdropping either. He couldn't bring himself to believe they didn't congregate after hours and gossip. "They clearly screwed up on their watchdog job."

"This battle has been like fire," Leliana said. "The Templars and mages are followers of Andraste. We can liken it to her trial by fire."

Bannon nodded. "Like forging a sword."

"I believe a crucible would have more meaning for the mages."

"What's a crucible?"

"It is a vessel subjected to great heat to galvanize its contents." She tilted her head. "Somewhat like a kiln, for firing clay."

Bannon shoved some more grapes in his mouth, making his cheeks bulge as he chewed. "Erm, pottery breaks. I like swords better. We _are_ going to war."

"Forge it is, then," Leliana said, scribbling a note on a piece of paper.

"I want to tell the story of Niall. He should be remembered."

"There were many mages who fought bravely, and died," she said cautiously.

"Niall the mouse mage defeated that big hulk, Sloth. It's like us going against the Blight. Only two Grey Wardens, the Circle of Magi decimated. But the mages can handle this battle, even if our enemy is bigger than they are." A seed cracked between his molars, and Bannon grimaced. He probed it out with his tongue and spit it into the bowl. He saw Leliana staring at him. "What?"

"You're rather shrewd with this," she said. "Writing speeches, I mean."

"So I've been told." He shrugged uncomfortably. "Niall inspired me," he said with a flippant air.

"You became close," she said, her gaze not wavering.

Bannon looked away. "No. I barely knew the guy. It was, like, what? Less than one day." Damn, was something wrong with these grapes? His stomach felt leaden.

Leliana looked down and idly rearranged the scraps of paper on the desk. "It was a short time, true," she said. "But a lot happened, and much of it was before I-" she gulped and flushed slightly. "Before I met him." Before she mistook him for the Maker. Bannon suppressed a smirk. "Will you tell me the whole story?"

"Now? Don't we have a speech to write?"

"If I knew the whole story, I could weave it into the speech better."

Bannon frowned, getting the sense she was trying to play him. "I only want to tell the part about defeating Sloth," he hedged. "You should have seen him when Sloth first tried to stop us." He put both feet on the floor and leaned forward in his chair, gesturing animatedly as he described the scene. "Niall could only do those mouse-sized spells, right? So after I poked Sloth in the eye-"

"You did what!?"

"I poked him in the eye."

Her brows shot up. "You didn't!"

"I did," he insisted with a grin. "And then Niall shot ice at him, just this little patch, and then Sloth stepped on it and _whomp!_ He fell right on his face!"

Leliana laughed with him and then regarded him with a soft smile. "You really were fond of him. I'm sure you would have made fast friends."

"It doesn't matter; he's gone now." Bannon felt a lump closing his throat, and his eyes prickled again. Niall was dead, and he'd never get to know him as anything other than 'the mouse mage.'

"Bannon, it's all right to grieve for your friend."

"I told you, I barely knew him." He rubbed his face in annoyance. "Can we just write this blasted speech?"

===#===

* * *

><p><strong>Aftermath<strong>

===#===

The speech went over well, and the food at the feast was plentiful. Even the Grey Wardens managed to get stuffed to the gills. The wine flowed freely, and there were a great many toasts to the dearly departed and heroes alike.

Bannon went to bed with three nimble elven beauties, blonde, brunette, and redhead. They were all very grateful to him for being such a hero and rescuing him from Blood Mages, demons, and Templars.

Until Alistair ran into the room, chased by a horde of magic-casting mice. They ran around and around the bed, tiny sparks hitting the furniture, drapes, and rugs and smoldering. Then Alistair ungratefully started beating Bannon over the head with a washboard.

"Bannon? Bannon!"

"Whurg?" the elf said blearily, peeling his sticky eyes open. "Stop hitting me."

"I'm not hitting you," Alistair said with maddening calm. Still the pounding continued. "But it's getting late. You should get up."

"Bleargh." His mouth felt as if he'd been eating his pillow.

Alistair helpfully poked and prodded him, and pulled him out from under the covers. "Had a bit too much last night, did we?"

Bannon tried to fix him with an evil glare. With at least one of his eyes. "Templars...," he mumbled; "something... insulting." With a drawn-out groan, he untangled himself from the sheets and staggered towards the chest to put on some clothes. "Did you see those three women?"

"What three women?"

"If Zevran asks, you did."

"Riiiight," the Templar drawled. "Do you need help getting to breakfast?"

"Nah'mfine."

===#===

Breakfast was a quick and blessedly quiet affair. Alistair suggested going to Denerim to pursue the lead on the Sacred Ashes. Bannon agreed, and tried not to examine too closely his feelings about returning home. He should be more concerned with avoiding Loghain and his troops.

Alistair insisted that taking the North Road was faster than trying to cut through the Bannorn. Bodahn later confirmed this. Heading straight east through the Bannorn looked to be a shorter route, but the small roads and trails through the countryside were not conducive to speedy travel. The North Road was a stretch of the ancient Imperial Highway; faster and more direct.

Bannon introduced Wynne to their system of shared finances. Except for her allowance from the Tower for traveling supplies, she gladly donated. The elf parceled out shares for a last shopping trip in Laketown. He made sure that those deserving got a bonus, and that Sten's pay was docked for bowing out of the Tower battle. Zevran finally got a share, to his glee. Bannon and Alistair forestalled him from heading to the nearest whorehouse by dragging him off to get a helmet. As for everyone else, they would meet after lunch to head out. They should catch up with Bodahn by nightfall.

===#===

They were unable to find any elf-sized leathers in town. Bannon could make do with human-fitted guards and bracers if he tightened the straps. He had to settle for a cut-down leather cuirass that was clearly a rush job. He hoped they wouldn't get into any battles on the North Road. It wasn't like there would be any darkspawn, though bandits and other unsavory types were always a possibility.

He and Zevran got helmets from the leather-worker. Zevran pronounced them sad monstrosities that he wouldn't be caught dead in.

"Well, that's the point," Alistair told him. "They're supposed to keep you alive."

The assassin sighed dramatically. Bannon had to silently agree with him. He, himself, looked like a shoddy patchwork job. This was nothing like the Grey Warden uniform he'd dreamt of in the Fade. The elves secured their helmets to their belts and left the leatherworker's shop with Alistair to find some lunch.

On their way to one of the smaller taverns, they crossed paths with that Templar who had been guarding the ferry to the Tower. "Oi!" he said, his brows knitting together as if trying to knock each other out. "Aren't you those supposed 'Grey Wardens' who stole my boat? You dumped me in the lake and stole my boat!"

Before Bannon or Alistair could say anything, Zevran shoved forward between them and leered at the Templar. "My poor, dear, handsome fellow! Are you quite all right? Do you require aid and attention?" He darted towards the man, his hands outstretched as if to embrace him, or feel him up, or whatever it was the assassin planned to do.

"Gah!" The Templar fled as fast as his armored boots and draped skirting allowed.

Zevran grinned back at the staring Wardens. Bannon turned to Alistair. "I told you he'd come in handy."

===_X_===

* * *

><p><em>End Notes:<em>

He wondered if purple hair would look rich and alluring or just stupid, as if he'd fallen head first into a wine vat.

-::waves the the purple-haired one:: you look fine! ;)

_Outtakes:_

Morrigan: Is that a slab of bacon between your legs, or are you just happy to see me?

Author: _That_ should take the wind out of the sails of the Good Ship Cockiness.

(okay, it's a modern fantasy and all, but that was just too... real-world reference-y. though i think i will save it up for the dragon age: torchwood crossover...!)


	30. continued

_This is the end of the Wolf in the Fold Chapter of Bannon & Zevran: Origins._

_The story continues in Partners in Crime.  
><em>


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